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THE HUGUENOT FAMILY; 


HELP IN TIME OP NEED. 





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Front. 


The Return.—Eugene embracing his Mother 


P. 225 
































































































































THE HUGUENOT FAMILY; 

OR, 

HELP IN TIME "of NEED. 


BY 

CATHERINE D. BELL, 


AUTHOR OF 

AN AUTUMN AT KARNFORD/’ ^‘THE DOUGLAS FAMILY,*' ETC. 











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r^'» 







THE HUGUENOT FAMILY; 


HELP IN TIME OF NEED. 


CATHERINE D. BELL, 

AUTHOR OF “ALLEN AND HARRY,” ” MARGARET CECIL,” “LILY GORDON,’’ 
“HOPE CAMPBELL,” “ KENNETH AND HUGH," ETC. ETC. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 



LONDON: 

FREDERICK WARNE Sc CO., 

BEDFORD STREET, CO VENT-GARDEN. 

1869. 

tv 


'TZ- ^ 
■34 uS ^ 



BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 





The Warning. 


God insured that it should never degenerate into such 
a gloominess as might have unseasonably depressed the 
spirit of his children and dependants. 

The young Hubert de Beauchardis, his son, inherit¬ 
ing much of his father’s disposition, and educated by 
him alone, felt the same cheerful acquiescence in the lot 
God had appointed him; and it was therefore only na¬ 
tural that Marie, seeing both father and brother well 
contented to remain in obscurity, should give herself 
freely to the enjoyment of all the peace and happiness 
their quiet retired mode of life was calculated to afford. 

This peace had little disturbance from outward 
troubles. As one of a persecuted and despised sect, the 
Marquis had trials and wrongs to endure, but these had 
never been aggravated by any more strictly personal 
grievance. Upon himself, as an individual, the hand 
of persecution had never yet alighted, and for this there 
were many good reasons. He had numerous relations 
high in rank and influence among the Eoman Catholic 
nobility, and for their sakes considerable forbearance 
was shown to him. His own character and position 
also served in some measure as safeguards. Louis and 
his ministers were afraid to drive such a man to extre¬ 
mities. They were fully aware that his genius was of 
the highest order—his influence among his brethren 
almost unlimited—that if he chose to exert it, his power 
of doing them harm was incalculable, but that his de¬ 
voted loyalty had hitherto led him always to use that 
power for the purpose of maintaining the king’s autho¬ 
rity, and the peace of the realm ; and they were there¬ 
fore most unwilling to hazard any measure which might 
have the effect of destroying or weakening such useful 
loyalty. 



6 


The Huguenot Family. 


^ . 

Thus it was that Marie’s life in her father’s house 
had passed most peacefully and happily—nor had her 
married life been less bright. Theodore had been her 
father’s ward j and, early left an orphan, he had been 
brought up by him as one of his own children. Marie 
had known and loved him nearly all her life, and al¬ 
though their natural dispositions were very unlike, yet 
their common education had produced such a similarity 
of tastes and habits as made them pleasant companions 
to each other. If there were less of principle in Theo¬ 
dore’s contented acquiescence in the retired mode of life 
to which his religious creed condemned him, it was be¬ 
cause the dreamy poetic cast of his mind, to which such 
retirement was most agreeable, rendered the exercise of 
such principle needless. This same tendency was an¬ 
other reason why Marie was so totally unprepared for 
the storm of persecution now ready to burst upon them. 
Devotedly attached to her husband, enjoying his con¬ 
stant society, seeing him perfectly happy in his varied 
scientific and literary studies, and in the lonely dreams 
his creative fancy was constantly presenting to him, 
and herself entering into and sharing in the brightness 
of these dreams, she had never cared to look abroad 
upon the real state of society around them, but had 
gone on quietly and happily to the very edge of the 
abyss which now yawned at her feet. 

And now that the veil was removed from her eyes— 
now that she saw herself and all that she loved, upon 
the very point of being plunged into such a stormy sea 
of trouble, all fortitude forsook her. She had no power 
of hope left—she could only look helplessly and de¬ 
spairingly down upon the misery that seemed to be in¬ 
evitable. 



The Warning. 


7 


And yet it was not the mere suffering which Marie 
BO greatly dreaded. It was her own want of power to 
endure it. She feared that she might he led to betray 
her Master’s cause—this it was which had so utterly 
overwhelmed her, and it was from this danger that she 
looked so anxiously on all sides for deliverance. 

“ Theodore,” she said, after a long silence, “ why 
should we stay to meet all this sorrow and danger ? Let 
us fly at once from this poor persecuted country. Better 
leave estate and country than deny our religion, than 
cast dishonour upon our Lord.” 

No, Marie,” he answered instantly and decidedly; 
“ I cannot fly. I cannot forsake the post in which the 
Lord has placed me. I can never fly from what it has 
pleased Him to send upon me.” 

“ But what good can we do by staying ?” she 
urged. 

“ That we do not know, Marie. We cannot suppose 
that the king wishes to destroy all his Huguenot sub¬ 
jects. Let all stand firm, and he must cease his perse¬ 
cutions at some point. We do not know where that 
point may be, we do not know whose firmness may be 
the means of turning away the bitter sin of persecution 
from our dear France. Marie, what suffering would 
not such a reward be worth ?” 

“ But our children, Theodore I What is to become of 
them, if we are taken from them ? Have we any right to 
leave them to be brought up in a religion we believe 
to be false ? Oh, Theodore! Eugene is nearly seven, 
and by the last decree seven is the age at which they 
may be permitted to abjure their religion.* Let us fly 
with him from all such danger before it be too late.” 

* See Lorimer’s “ History of the French Protestants.” 



8 


The Huguenot Family. 


For a moment Theodore's resolution seemed to waver, 
but only for a moment. 

‘‘ Our children are the Lord's, Marie," he said fer¬ 
vently. “ Let us do the Lord's will, and leave Him 
to care for them. We have given them to Him. Have 
you forgotten the day of Eugene's baptism ? Have you 
forgotten how solemnly, and yet joyfully we felt, that 
we had given him to the Lord ?" 

No, Marie had not forgotten that day, with all its 
holy, happy feelings. And as the memory of it came 
over her, as she saw again the simple country church, 
the venerable pastor, the young father's face of solemn, 
deep feeling, and recollected all the happiness she had 
enjoyed then and since, the dread of denying the Lord 
who had so blessed her, returned with new force to bow 
her soul to the very dust in fear and misery. 

After a long and silent struggle with her excessive 
agitation, Marie raised her head, and looked up to her 
husband for comfort and sympathy. But one glance at 
him told her that he was equally unconscious of her 
emotion and of her presence. His eyes were raised, 
fixed in dreamy abstraction upon a point in the ceiling, 
his lips moved as if in prayer, and an expression of 
enthusiasm, of happiness, and triumph lighted up his 
whole countenance. Marie would not disturb him with 
the expression of feelings so miserable, so opposed to 
his own. But, unable any longer to bear the fearful 
conflict in silence, she rose softly and stole out of the 
room. 

Slowly and heavily she went up stairs, and along the 
gallery leading to her own room. For a few moments 
she paused at the door of her children's nursery. Never 
before had she passed that door without going in to 



PREFACE. 


I AM anxious that this Preface should be read, 
and as I know young readers, in general, do greatly 
dislike prefaces, I shall make mine as short as possible. 
In truth, a very short one is all that is necessary. I 
only wish to warn my young friends that, in this little 
story, they will find nothing like a history of the 
Huguenots, or of the persecutions they suffered. My 
object has been to awaken interest rather than to give 
information, to induce my readers to study the many 
excellent histories of the period, rather than to attempt 
to supply the place of such histories by a meagre one 
of my own. 

When I was a young reader of history, in reading of 
any great national event, from the passage of the chil¬ 
dren of Israel through the Ked Sea, down to the civil 
wars in our own dear country, I used to take great 
delight in picturing to myself the private life of 
families or individuals living in such times. Eealizing 
that there must have been young people of all ages 
and ranks then as now, I amused myself by singling 
out 'one particular girl or boy about my own age and 



vi 


Preface. 


rank, and fancying how he or she would think, feel, or 
act under these circumstances. 

And such occupation or amusement I found by no 
means unprofitable. It made the realities of history 
real to me. It induced me to combine scattered facts 
concerning manners and customs of life, so as to form 
one picture; and it deepened the feelings which the 
history of such events was calculated to excite. 

Some such attempt I have here made for your benefit, 
by following one particular family through the trials 
and difficulties to which thousands of such families 
were in those times exposed. And my object in writ¬ 
ing this little book is gained, if it awakens in your 
minds a greater interest in these persecuted children 
of God, a more realizing sense of what they had to 
endure, and did endure, for their Lord's sake, a desire 
to emulate their steadiness of principle and self-denial, 
and above all, a childlike trust in the God who so 
tenderly cared for, so powerfully protected them. 



CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. THE WARNING, . • . . . 1 

II. PREPARATION, . • . . .12 

III. THE TRIAL, . . . • .21 

IV. THE DELIVERER, ..... 48 

V. EUGilNE, 59 

VI. REMORSE, . . . . . .79 

VII. ZEENA, 101 

VIII. THE FLIGHT, ..... 126 

IX. THE gipsy’s cave, . . . ... 140 

X. THE PARTING, ..... 148 

XI. THE NIGHT JOURNEY, . . . .157 

XII. DANGERS BY THE WAY, .... 166 

XIII. GERARD DE RAYNAL, . . . . 184 

XIV. THE GALLEY SLAVES, . . « .198 

XV. THE INDIANS, . . . • .217 

XVI. THE EMBARKATION, .... 227 

XVII. PAULINE, . . .... 239 

XVIII. ANOTHER CHANGE, , , • . 246 

XIX. A MEETING, , , . . • 258 








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THE HUGUENOT FAMILY. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE WAENING. 

ARiE DE BlancAED sat alone with her hus¬ 
band in her own little sitting-room. 
Although the smallest of the fine suite of 
public apartments in the chateau, it was the 
favourite of both husband and wife. In 
preparing for his marriage, Theodore had 
himself chosen this pretty little room to. be 
set apart for his expected bride’s special 
use, and had selected all the furniture and decorations, 
with loving careful reference to her well-known tastes. 
Here no stranger was ever permitted to enter. Here 
alone with her husband and children, or more precious 
still, alone with the God she had so early learned to know 
as her God, Marie had passed many of the happiest 
hours of her life. And there was not a corner of the 
room, not an article of furniture, not an ornament nor 
decoration, that had not pleasant associations connected 
with it, that did not call up bright memories of the 
happiness and peace that had been here enjoyed. 

But far were, all memories of peace and happiness 
from Marie now, as she sat by her husband’s side. In- 







2 


The Huguenot Family. 


tense pity, anxiety, alarm amounting even to terror, 
were now too plainly visible upon those features, which 
seemed fitted only to express such different emotions. 

Nor was her husband less deeply, though somewhat 
differently, moved. Generous indignation, and haughty 
decision on his countenance, took the place of the com¬ 
passion and fear painted on hers. And while Marie's 
hands trembled so much that she could not hold the 
letter they were reading, his grasp was so firm, so re¬ 
solved, one might have fancied the frail paper would 
give way under his fingers. 

And this same letter which so deeply affected them, 
was from Marie's father, the father they both so ten¬ 
derly loved, whose letters hitherto had been so joyfully 
received, so carefully treasured up by both. But never 
before had a letter like this one come from that hand. 
It was written from Poitou, where he had" lately been 
on business, and was written expressly to tell them of 
the sufferings endured and enduring by their brothel 
Protestants in that province, and to warn them to pre¬ 
pare, lest such sufferings might soon be their lot. 

It told of women and children driven forth to wander 
homeless and destitute, a sentence of death pronounced 
on any who should feed or shelter them. It told of the 
aged and infirm of both sexes forcibly deprived of sleep 
night after night, until life, reason, or constancy gave 
way under the agony infiicted. It told of parents forced 
to see their children tortured or murdered before their 
eyes, children their parents, husbands their wives, and 

wives their husbands. It told-but Marie could 

read no more. A mist came over her eyes, and, with a 
shuddering groan, she hid her face on her husband’s 
shoulder. 



The Warning. 


a 

“ Ah, Theodore,’^ she cried, “ if I am to see you or 
our children tortured, how shall I, how can I hear it ? 
Shall I ever he able to endure ? Ah, Theodore, if I 
were to deny the Lord!” 

“ Deny Him, Marie !” he answered quickly. “ How 
could we ? Deny the Lord who bought us with His 
own blood, who has blessed us all our life long I How 
could we deny Him ? It is impossible.” 

Marie could not echo the “ impossible.” Faith, grati¬ 
tude, love, seemed for the time dead within her. A sick¬ 
ening terror paralyzed every faculty of her soul. She 
could not hope, could not even pray. 

The tale she had been reading was fearful enough 
in itself. But to Marie it came with the additional 
shock of surprise. She might have been more pre¬ 
pared for it. For many years, ay, for more years than 
she had lived, there had been systematically carried 
on a course of restriction and oppression towards the 
Huguenots. Without the formal revocation of the 
famous edict of Nantes, the rights and privileges it 
accorded them had been gradually curtailed and nar¬ 
rowed, now on this side, and now on that, until there 
was but little left to them of what had once seemed 
their inalienable right. 

Of course, Marie had heard of all these acts of op¬ 
pression, but as yet none of them had interfered much 
with her own individual happiness. She had still much 
of a child’s disposition, to enjoy the present without 
care for the future, and that present had hitherto been 
very enjoyable for her. 

True, her father, husband, and brother, were shut 
out from all the posts of honour to which their rank and 
character might have raised them had their creed been 




4 


The Huguenot Family. 


different. True, to them was afforded no opportunity 
of gaining that distinction and fame, so dear to the 
heart of the old French nobility. True, that while 
they were doomed to a forced inactivity, they saw 
others, their inferiors in, every way, winning laurels in 
the field or the cabinet; and with hearts filled with 
loyal devotion to king and country, they saw them¬ 
selves absolutely prohibited from shewing that loyalty 
in any manner of service. 

But ambition was not a feature of Marie’s natural 
character, and had not been engrafted in it by either 
precept or example. Her father, the Marquis de Beau- 
chardis, was fully competent, by talents both natural and 
acquired, to fill any post his king could have conferred 
on him; but in his intense devotedness to his Heavenly 
Master’s service, his entire submission to tlmt Master’s 
will, with serene and steadfast heart he accepted his ex¬ 
clusion from all honourable employment in the State as 
the appointment of a Father who loved him, and gave 
himself heartily to the duties of the private station to 
which he was reduced. Ambitious he was, but ambitious 
only to serve his Heavenly King, and to do good to his 
fellow-men. And that was an ambition which he be¬ 
lieved, nay knew, could be as well gratified in retirement 
and obscurity, as amid the pomp and distinctions of court 
or camp. The prospects of his church, the sufferings 
of many of its members, and the knowledge that his 
beloved France sinned in thus gainsaying God’s truth, 
and persecuting His servants—all this cast a sobering, 
saddening influence over his naturally gay temperament. 
But the gravity thus induced was deepened by no vain 
regrets concerning his own position ; and his cheerful 
confidence in the wisdom and power of an overruling 



The Warning. 


9 


feast her eyes and heart with the sight of her treasures. 
But now that she knew all that she might be called 
upon to suffer in them and by them, she felt that she 
could not bear to look upon them sleeping in all 
the unconscious security of childhood, and she fled 
hastily from the door, as if pursued by an unseen 
enemy. 

When she had secured the door bf her room she went 
up to the couch where she was accustomed to kneel in 
her daily devotions. Her body took the accustomed 
posture, but her heart refused to rise in prayer. She 
could not pray. At flrst she had been bowed down by 
the sense of her powerlessness to avoid sin. Now, as 
the consummation of her misery, came the conviction 
that the wish to do so was as far from her as the 
power. The very thought of her children had deprived 
her of all desire for the fortitude and constancy which 
might be the means of bringing down bitter suffering 
upon their innocent heads. 

A few terrible moments followed, during which Marie 
struggled even fiercely to throw off this conviction, to 
persuade herself that at least she willed to do what was 
right, even though the power to perform it might not be 
hers. And then, as she was forced to see herself as she 
was, and felt herself borne helplessly along to a willing 
apostasy, she bowed herself to the very gi’ound, and from 
the depths of her heart came forth the cry, Lord, I 
am thine, save me 

It was the despairing cry of one feeling herself 
swept relentlessly away by an overwhelming flood, 
and was called forth far more by the conviction that 
no other help remained than by the hope that from 
the Lord such help would be given But faithless as 

B 




10 The Huguenot Family. 


it was, even in the first moment of its utterance, 
it brought her a faint ray of light. And as again 
and again she repeated it, ever brighter and brighter 
grew the sense of that help which the Lord hath 
“laid upon One who is mighty,”—ever more and mare 
clearly did she see the willingness of that mighty One 
to save,—and ever more and more confidently did she 
come to lay her soul, with all its burdens and sinful¬ 
ness, into His hands. Once the fear suggested itself, 
“ Perhaps I am not the Lord's, and have no right to 
use the prayer.” But she would not entertain the 
doubt, would not even reason upon it. “ If never 
Thine before,” she cried, “ I come to Thee now, and 
Thou wilt receive me, if only for this reason, that with¬ 
out Thee I am lost.” And the very effort thus to cast 
herself anew upon His free grace, brought strength and 
healing to her soul. It was like setting anew her own 
seal to the covenant her Saviour offered to make with 
her. And as in that covenant all sin was on one side, 
all righteousness on the other, utter want and helpless¬ 
ness in her, almighty strength and all fulness of grace 
in Him, Marie felt that no depth of depravity, no per¬ 
versity of her corrupt will, could annul her interest in 
it, but could only make it the more sure by making 
it the more necessary for her salvation. 

Long she sat upon the ground, her head resting on 
the couch, and her heart rejoicing in the contemplation 
of the glorious perfection of Him who was her Substi¬ 
tute, her Surety. What He was in His divine fulness 
He was for her; what she was in all her weakness and 
sin, she was for Him to save. “ I am thine. Lord I” 
she said, while tears flowed down her cheeks. “ Thine 
to be washed in Thy blood; thine to be clothed in Thy 



The Warning, 


11 


righteousness; thine to he sanctified by Thy Spirit; 
thine to be watched over and cared for by Thy love. 
I am thine! Thou mayest do with me what Thou 
seest fit. Thine ! Thy glory is concerned for my per¬ 
fect salvation.” 

When at length she rose, and went to rejoin her 
husband, she felt weak and wearied, both in body and 
mind, from the fearful conflict she had passed through. 
But such weakness and weariedness was even grateful 
to her, now that her heart had found such a strong 
One on whom to lean. 

She found Theodore as she had left him. His time 
had been spent far differently from hers. He had made 
no account of all the sorrows and temptations of the 
coming conflict. The triumph, the glory of victory, 
had alone filled his mind. Already were all the suf¬ 
ferings passed, and he saw himself standing before the 
throne of God, to hear His “ Well done, good and 
faithful servant,”—to he received to dwell for ever with 
the Lord, for whom he had given up his life. 

When Marie sat down again by his side, he made 
her a sharer in all his rapturous anticipations of future 
bliss, and Marie joined heart and soul in his joy ; only 
with her the first thought was: “ And all this my 
Saviour has purchased for me; this He has reserved for 
me,—me whom Himself keeps for it,^’ 




CHAPTER 11. 


PEEPAEATION. 



LTHOUGH Marie had thus learned that all 
slavish dread of the coming trial would he 
dishonouring to the Lord, who had so em¬ 
phatically said to her, “ Fear not, I will 
help thee,” she was yet thoroughly convinced 
that it was her imperative duty to prepare for 
it as far as was in her power. She felt that it 
was the Lord who, in His providence, had given her 
timely warning of what was before her, and that He 
could not mean that she should sit idly waiting for it, 
trusting to Him for grace to carry her through tempta¬ 
tions, which her own seasonable exertions might have 
lessened. To strengthen the faith He had given by 
constant exercise in things both great and small; by 
constant watchfulness and prayer to keep open the 
way of access to her Father’s throne; and by the zeal¬ 
ous avoidance of every sin to keep herself in His 
presence, and in the light of His countenance,—were 
duties incumbent upon her at all times, and specially 
incumbent now. Duties, too, which in no way inter¬ 
fered with her entire dependence upon her Saviour, 
with her full conviction of her own helplessness. 

In regard to her children, also, the present trial 
brought a special duty. If she had good reason to 
dread that they might soon be torn from hor protection 


Preparation, 


13 


and guidance, it certainly became her to see that this 
separation should do as little harm as possible. And 
looking forward to the time when they should be 
placed under the control and instruction of those who 
would labour to teach them false and pernicious doc¬ 
trine, she felt strongly that it was her part now to 
imbue their minds with as much truth as they were 
capable of receiving. The consideration of their age, 
the eldest only seven, seeming to debar all hope that 
any instruction she could now give could effectually 
guard them from future false teaching; and the thought 
of the suffering to which her success might expose them, 
did for a short time induce Marie to waver in her re¬ 
solution. But she was soon made to see, that neither 
discouragement nor fear had anything to do with her 
duty, that her part was to set about performing it, and 
to leave the rest to God. 

And in the performance she shewed a wisdom and 
forethought we might hardly have expected from her. 
Like many of her countrywomen, Marie was naturally 
impulsive, and somewhat volatile; but like them, too, 
she had a quick, keen perception, and a ready inge¬ 
nuity. Sbe had hitherto lived a more childish, thought¬ 
less life than beseemed her age and situation; but 
when once aroused to a fall knowledge of that situa¬ 
tion, she readily comprehended all her own duty, and 
quickly discerned the wisest and best mode of per¬ 
forming it. 

It would have been worse than useless to attempt to 
instruct such young children in the controversy be¬ 
tween the two religions. All she could hope to per¬ 
form was to sow as much good seed as possible in their 
young minds, leaving it to the Lord to give the in- 



14 


The Huguenot Family. 


crease, and to root out the tares she had too much 
reason to fear an enemy would try to plant in their 
stead. 

Love to the Lord Jesus Christ, a realizing know¬ 
ledge of His love, tenderness, and care for His own 
people, must he the best safeguard against the doctrines 
which in so many ways cast dishonour upon Him. A 
religion which forbids the use of the Bible must be 
distasteful to those who had learned to reverence it as 
God’s word, to love it as His message to themselves, 
and had been accustomed to refer to it continually for 
guidance, comfort, and instruction. And to give her 
children such love and reverence, to train them to 
such habits, was now Marie’s constant aim. 

In this she sought the aid of example more than of 
precept. She had from early girlhood loved the Lord 
Jesus Christ as her Saviour, rejoiced in His presence, 
and sought communion with Him. But she now began 
to teach herself to manifest these feelings in such a 
way as to attract her children’s attention, and awaken 
their sympathy. She had always looked to the Bible 
for guidance ; but she now was more careful to refer 
directly to it on all occasions as the one rule for action, 
the one instructor in all difficulties, the one comfort 
under all trials. While carefully and systematically 
instructing her little ones in the truths essential for 
their salvation, she did not weary them with long 
formal . dissertations; but she took care to bring the 
subject before them in the most pleasant and attractive 
way, rather as a daily and hourly source of happiness, 
than as a lesson to be learned at regular times, and 
then dismissed until its turn came round again. 

In all her labour, Marie found a willing and able 



Preioaration, 


15 


assistant in her husband. All that was poetic and 
imaginative in his nature found full scope and enjoy¬ 
ment in the glories of revealed religion; and he had 
a singular power of expressing clearly what he felt 
strongly, of awakening the enthusiasm of others to 
keep pace with his own. Less able, perhaps less 
anxious than Marie, to inform the intellect and guide 
the conduct of his children, he far surpassed her in the 
power of attracting their attention, and awakening 
their feelings. While Marie was training her little 
ones to walk as ever in the presence of a holy God, 
who, hating sin, had yet so loved sinners as to give 
His only begotten Son to die for them, Theodore was 
teaching them to discern and rejoice in all the beauty 
BO abundantly poured into the works of His hands, and 
to adore that greatness and goodness which were 
equally displayed in His creation and preservation of 
the glorious stars over their head, and of the meanest 
insect under their foot. From their mother.they 
learned to love the Lord Jesus Christ as an ever pre¬ 
sent friend, who loved them, and continually watched 
over and cared for them. From their father they 
learned to admire the lovely perfection of' His charac¬ 
ter, the bright manifestation it gave forth of all that 
was good and beautiful. By the one they were accus¬ 
tomed to look upon the Bible as the lamp to their feet, 
and the light to their path; as full of God’s truth, 
and very precious from its revelation of God’s exceed¬ 
ing love. By the other they were accustomed to 
regard it as the most beautiful and interesting of all 
books the world contained. 

With Hortense the success of such teaching was 
very remarkable. She was a singularly thoughtful 



16 


The Huguenot Family, 


child. Although healthy enough, she had never been 
very robust; and lacking both spirit and energy for 
her brother’s boisterous amusements, her greatest plea¬ 
sure had ever been to sit quietly by the side of either 
father or mother, listening to the simple, touching 
Bible stories of the one, or to the glowing description 
of God’s power and goodness from the other. But 
about this time Marie saw reason to hope that God 
had answered her prayers, and had given to the child, 
young as she was, the new heart, without which no 
interest in, no love for religious subjects, can be of any 
avail. And this was a hope which future years only 
strengthened. ' 

Eugene was very different from his sister. He was 
a bold, high-spirited boy, generous and affectionate, 
but wild and thoughtless to a great degree. Two 
years older than Hortense, and with a mind of a higher 
order than hers, he was more capable of enjoying the 
beauty of language, thought, and feeling, all his 
father’s instructions displayed; more capable of con¬ 
necting his mother’s faith with her practice, and of 
admiring the consistency between them. His interest 
in, his liking for his parents’ teaching, was therefore, 
as great as hers; but with him it was mere interest, 
mere liking; with Hortense it was an eager feeding 
upon that which was the life of her soul. 

The opportunity for such teaching was lengthened 
out far beyond what the parents had ever dared to hope. 
That persecution, which had seemed at their very door, 
was in God’s providence warded off for more than three 
years. Before the period 1681, at which my story 
began, Louis the Fourteenth had eagerly and hope¬ 
fully begun a system of buying converts to the Eoman 



Preparation. 


17 


Catholic religion. Large sums were expended in dona¬ 
tions and annuities to all who were base enough to 
exchange their faith for such commodities. And hon¬ 
our and favour to those Catholics who cared for such 
rewards, and money to the more mercenary, were 
freely poured forth on all who were the means of con¬ 
verting Protestants of any age, rank, or sex. Nor 
were vanity and avarice the only passions appealed to 
in such a cause. A fraudulent Protestant might escape 
the payment of his debts by ehanging his religion,— 
the law between Protestant creditor and Catholic 
debtor being such as to render almost hopeless any 
effort the former could make to obtain his dues. And 
a malicious man of either religion might obtain the 
fullest revenge upon his Protestant adversary by 
tempting his young children to admire the image of a 
saint, to look into the inside of a church, or in mere 
playfulness to imitate the sign of the cross ; from any 
of which acts, nay, from a mere thoughtless or dictated 
wish to perform any one of them, the child’s conversion 
to Eoman Catholicism was proved in the eye of the law.* 
At first the success of this new system of conversion 
surpassed the king’s most sanguine hopes. But such 
success did not, indeed could not, last long. It was 
only the weak and faithless who were converted by 
such means. In a persecuted church, the number of 
such is never very large ; and as it rapidly diminished 
from the large drafts made upon it, so the progress of 
conversion became proportionably slow. Louis, ren¬ 
dered more eager and impatient by the hope of victory 
so lately presented to him, no sooner became .aware of 
this diminution of success, than he began to adopt 

* See Lorimer’s " History of the French Protestants.’* 



18 


The Huguenot Family, 


other measures to supply the place of those whose suc¬ 
cess was beginning to appear doubtful. New and more 
severe restrictions were imposed. Their own schools 
and colleges had been destroyed; and now no Catholic 
teacher was allowed to instruct Protestant children in 
anything beyond reading and writing. A Protestant 
was incapacitated from holding the office of tutor or 
guardian ; so that a Protestant parent at his death could 
see no hope of his children being educated in what he 
believed to be the only true religion. Most oppressive 
regulations were passed in regard to their public wor¬ 
ship. It was made a crime to perform Protestant 
service in the presence of a single Koman Catholic; 
and that a crime chargeable not only on the clergy¬ 
man, but upon the congregation. And as there never 
could be any security that a concealed Catholic was 
not among them, this law had the effect, in many 
places, of causing the churches to be wholly deserted. 
Numerous pretexts were devised, by which it became 
lawful to enter and search a Protestant’s house at any 
moment of the night and day; and even the sick and 
dying were not free from the intrusion of priest and 
magistrate. In short, every measure was taken that 
could be invented to make the position of Protestant 
as intolerable as possible. Still the constancy of the 
Huguenots baffled the skill of their enemies to over¬ 
come. And then the power of more direct persecution 
was tried, and in 1681 began the terrible trial of the 
“ dragonnades.”* 

By this new system, large parties of soldiers were 
quartered upon the houses of the defenceless Protest¬ 
ants, and the lawless men were suffered, nay, encour- 

* See Lorimer’s “ History of the French Protestants.” 



Preparation, 


19 


aged, to use every cruelty they could invent to force 
their victims to apostasy. The name was supposed to 
arise from the fact, that the dragoons were most largely 
employed, and most relentless in the work. Of the 
Bufferings thus caused I have given you a slight ac¬ 
count, perhaps as full a one as the nature of this 
volume warrants. Those who desire a more complete 
history, I would refer to Weiss’s “ History of the Pro¬ 
testant Eefugees,” and Peyrot’s “ Histoire des Pasteurs 
du Desert,” assuring them that both works will most 
amply repay the time spent in their careful perusal. 

In 1681, the dragonnades were mostly confined to 
l^oitou. Before they could extend further, various 
motives of self-interest induced Louis to suspend his 
persecuting work for the time. As the news of what 
their brethren were enduring spread among the Hugue¬ 
nots, a panic seized all classes, and an emigration, un¬ 
paralleled in extent, was the immediate result. The 
noble left his chateau, the peasant his cottage, the 
manufacturer his works, the farmer his farm, and 
hastened to take refuge in other countries, where they 
were received with an eagerness that was in itself 
enough to teach Louis the loss he had sustained in 
their departure. 

Such teaching.was, however, hardly required. Louis 
was well aware that these hated Huguenots were his 
best and most profitable subjects. Brought up in the 
midst of jealous and watchful enemies, they had early 
acquired a self-control and self-denial, a circumspect¬ 
ness and orderliness of conduct, and a strict obedience 
to all laws,—^by no means distinguishing features of 
their country, or of their age. Completely debarred 
from gaining either fame or fortune in political or 
military employments, they had turned their energies 



20 The Huguenot Family, 


to manufactures, commerce, and agriculture. And as 
even in these they were shut out from many privileges 
their fellow-countrymen enjoyed, they were forced to 
maintain an equality with them, by the exercise of 
greater perseverance and industry. These, and such¬ 
like causes operating for a number of years, had resulted 
in rendering the Huguenots eminent in every branch 
of trade. They were well known to be the most suc¬ 
cessful, the most ingenious, industrious, and orderly of 
all the subjects Louis reigned over, and the districts 
which they inhabited were better cultivated and more 
flourishing than any other in France. Ho wonder then 
that he viewed with uneasiness their flight from his 
own dominions to enrich other countries, by the manu¬ 
factures, commerce, and agriculture they could no 
longer safely carry on in their own. Ho wonder that 
he paused in a course that threatened to depopulate 
the fairest part of his dominions. And when in aid 
of such considerations, came vehement remonstrances 
from Holland, England, and other Protestant countries, 
he yielded temporarily to their force, and the dragon- 
nades were stopped for at least three years. 

During these three years, therefore, our friends were 
suffered to carry on in peace that work of preparation 
they had begun so energetically, under the impression 
that their opportunity for it could not last above as 
many months, or even weeks. 

In these three years Eugene and Hortense had come 
to an age better fitted to profit by their parents’ instruc¬ 
tions, Aimee had grown old enough to take her share 
as a learner, baby Marie had found peace and safety in 
the quiet churchyard, and another baby, Theodore, had 
come to take her place in the anxieties and cares of the 
father and mother. 



CB.AFTER HI. 


THE TEIAIi. 

f N 1684 the storm hurst forth again, and with 
redoubled fury. Large bodies of soldiers, set 
free by the late peace, were employed in the 
work, a work no longer confined to one dis- 
^ trict, but spreading over the whole of France, 
and carrying terror, desolation, misery where- 
ever it went. 

Marie watched the approach of the storm 
with becoming seriousness, having fully weighed the 
suffering it must bring to her and hers, but with calm¬ 
ness, her heart resting securely on the love and wisdom 
of that Lord who doeth according to His will in the 
armies of heaven, and among the inhabitants of the 
earth. 

Theodore's feeling was more one of restless, excited 
anticipation, like a warrior on the battle-field, impatient 
for the signal of attack. As rumour after rumour 
reached his ears, of the suffering of some, the constancy 
of others, and alas! the faithlessness of not a few, his 
spirit burned within him to take part in a struggle 
which was in his eyes only an opportunity of showing 
forth to men and angels the gratitude of a redeemed 
soul, an opportunity of enduring suffering for the sake 
of the Lord who had borne so much for him. 

At first the blow was averted from them by the 


22 


The Huguenot Family, 


same protection whicli liad hitherto saved them from 
molestation. Their friends at court were too numerous 
and powerful to he -rashly aggrieved, and ample time 
was granted to them to endeavour, by remonstrance and 
entreaty, to shake the constancy of both families of 
Beauchardis and Blancard. But when a constant firm 
negative was returned to all proposals and persuasion, 
even the warmest of their friends were convinced that 
further effort was useless, and that their obstinacy must 
he suffered to hear its own punishment. 

At this crisis Marie again endeavoured to persuade 
her husband to emigrate for the sake of their children, 
if not for their own. But Theodore was firmly con¬ 
vinced that duty required him to remain at his post; 
and Marie, though she did not share his conscientious 
scruples, respected them too much to attempt by her 
entreaties to induce him to violate them. 

Her father took a different view of the subject. In 
the very beginning of this outbreak he had sent his 
wife and unmarried daughter to Holland, and he him¬ 
self only waited to complete the sale of his property, and 
to be rejoined by his son before he should follow them. 

Hubert de Beauchardis had been for some time serv¬ 
ing with the army. He shared all the devoted loyalty 
to king and country, which had ever distinguished his 
father. And although his profession of the Protestant 
faith debarred him from all hope of promotion, and con¬ 
demned him to a rank far below his merits, he yet, on 
the first breaking out of the war, volunteered into the 
army, and served through the whole campaign with a 
zeal, courage, and skill, which were all the more ad¬ 
mirable, in so far that they were perfectly disinterested. 
On the peace he returned to France. But regimental 



The Trial. 


23 


duties detained him for some time, and he only joined 
his father in time to share the dungeon which rewarded 
their firm adherence to their principles. 

Their imprisonment was the first shock the Blan- 
cards experienced. But it was soon followed by more 
personal suffering. A week or two after they had 
heard of it, -Marie and Theodore were one evening 
enjoying the beauty of their flowers on the terrace in 
front of the chateau, when the sudden appearance of a 
large party of dragoons announced that the moment 
of trial had arrived. 

The soldiers rode up to the spot where Theodore 
stood, recklessly and rudely trampling down flowers 
and shrubs in their progress. Without dismounting, 
their leader presented the billet which gave a sem¬ 
blance of legality to their intrusion. 

“ Monsieur le Comte will find myself and men quar¬ 
ters and provisions, as therein commanded,” he said 
rudely. 

Theodore took the paper with calm dignity, examined 
the signature of the magistrate of the district, and bow¬ 
ing his head with grave courtesy, said he should give 
them the best accommodation in his power. There 
was no trace of perturbation in his look or voice, and, 
except that she was deadly pale, Marie, standing by his 
side, looked equally composed. 

The men were evidently annoyed by the manner of 
their reception. It flattered their sense of importance 
when their victims displayed either terror or useless 
anger. Here there was only a dignified assumption of 
the superiority belonging to their station, and which 
was the more provoking, in that there was nothing to 
find fault with, nothing to refute. To the leader of 




24 


The Huguenot Family. 


the troop such a manner was peculiarly disagreeable. 
He was a fanatic in religion, looking upon the Hugue¬ 
nots as creatures of an inferior order to himself and 
to all good Catholics. He was further tinged with the 
republican spirit which in after years broke forth with 
such fury all over the kingdom, and nothing was more 
unpalatable to him than any assertion of superiority of 
rank or circumstances. In his irritation he at once 
cast off even the slight restraint he had imposed upon 
himself, and in a most insolent sarcastic tone observed, 
that he hoped M. le Comte was prepared to obey all 
other orders of the king as well as this one. 

Monsieur le Comte hoped so too. 

“ Well then, you will have the goodness to give im¬ 
mediate orders that the chapel adjoining the chateau 
may be prepared, and you, with Madame la Comtesse, 
your children, and servants, will repair thither, to hear 
mass performed by these reverend fathers,” pointing to 
the ecclesiastics in his train. 

“ I must first be convinced that the king ever issued 
any such command, before I inform you of my inten¬ 
tions in regard to it,” answered the Count with the 
same immovable self-possession. 

“ As to that, we have many modes of convincing the 
incredulous,” retorted the sergeant, with a brutal laugh. 

His laugh was echoed by his troop. 

“Ay, ay, Gaspar,” cried one, “we are pretty well 
accustomed to the work of convincing people against 
their will. A strong rope twisted round the elbows 
is not a bad way.” 

“A pan of burning coals to the soles of the feet, 
often proves an argument equally satisfactory to both 
parties,” suggested another. 



The Trial, 


25 


“ The loss of sleep for a few nights is a wonderful 
teacher of logic,” said a third. 

“Ah! we have many most successful methods of 
teaching that science. Only speak the word, Gaspar, 
and we shall begin at once,” cried several, dismounting 
and forming a circle round the Count as they spoke. 

He made no reply—he neither spoke nor moved, ex¬ 
cept that, as the men pressed more closely upon Marie, 
he threw his arm round her as if to shield her from their 
rudeness; a slight smile of scorn was the only sign that 
he had even heard their threats. 

Before the sergeant could give any order, one of the 
priests beckoned hastily to him to come to his side. He 
obeyed the summons with evident reluctance. 

“ Take heed what you are about, my son,” the other 
said in an eager whisper; “ I have watched that man 
closely, I am accustomed to read countenances, and I 
can tell you that mere physical pain will be useless 
here.” 

“ Ah! your reverence must pardon me,” he answered, 
with his low cynical laugh, “ if I say you are mistaken. 
That is a screw which, well tried on, seldom fails of 
effect. One only needs to know how far to go.” 

“ I tell you,” said the priest with increased vehe¬ 
mence, “ you are wrong—you may torture that man to 
death, but never to abjuration.” 

“Well, well, it does not much matter,—^be converted 
or die, is, I believe, pretty much the meaning of our 
gracious king’s dealing with heretics, however he may 
disguise it under the honeyed words of anxiety for the 
man’s salvation, and so on. If he does die of our physic, 
why, it is only one accursed heretic fewer in the world.” 

“ But you ought to know by the orders you received 

c 




26 


The Huguenot Family. 


ttat in this particular case conversion would be far 
preferred to death.’’ 

“ But you say that he is not a man to be converted,” 
in an impatient tone. 

Not by pain of body, my son, but attack the heart,” 
the other rejoined complacently, “ you will find that 
vulnerable. The screw you speak of, tried on there, 
shall have less chance of killing, more chance of con¬ 
verting.” 

“ I cannot pretend to understand your reverence,” 
was Gaspar’s sullen answer. He prided himself on his 
skill in such forcible conversions, and he did not ap¬ 
prove of dictation or interference. 

“ Look at the Count now,” said the priest eagerly, 
“ see how his eyes flash as your fellows look somewhat 
boldly on his fair Countess. See how he draws her 
closer to his side, if one of them but advance a step or 
raise a finger. Can you see no way of trying his con¬ 
stancy through her ?” 

Gaspar laughed again his peculiar laugh of terrible 
exultation. 

“ Your reverence is right, the woman must be con¬ 
verted at any rate: better begin with her, and her ex¬ 
ample may be beneficial, even should our mode of in¬ 
structing her fail of the desired result of convincing 
him.” 

“ Example I” repeated the priest, as he watched 
Marie keenly. “ No ! you will get no example of that 
kind from her.” 

He had noted well her every movement and expres¬ 
sion, the calmness of her pale countenance, her eyes 
looking quietly on the fierce, exulting faces round her, 
and now and then glancing up to the bright sky over- 



The Trial. 


27 


head. He rightly interpreted the meaning of that glance, 
and although he called that enthusiasm which was faith, 
he yet did not fail to estimate correctly enough the in¬ 
fluence, that the feeling, however named, must exercise 
upon her power to endure. 

Gaspares eyes had followed the direction of his com¬ 
panion’s. He, too, watched Marie for a minute in 
silence ere he answered. 

Ay, ay, she does look rather a difficult subject; 
but the more difficult, the better suited to play the part 
we design her in the Count’s conversion. He could, 
perhaps, stand a short trial even where she was the suf¬ 
ferer. The longer she makes it, the more sure we shall 
be of succeeding in the end.” 

Their deliberations were here interrupted; the chil¬ 
dren had been preparing to join their father and mother 
on the terrace at the very moment the dragoons came 
up. The servants, too well understanding the nature 
of the visit, had kept them within doors, while they 
anxiously watched the scene from one of the windows. 
But at this instant Eugene, by a sudden spring, freeing 
himself from the hands of the man who detained him, 
darted across the hall and out on the terrace. 

At a signal from the priest, Gaspar seized him as he 
would have passed on to his mother’s side. 

(( Try your screw with him, while I watch the 
parents’ looks,” said the other, in a low significant 
tone. 

“ Stand still, you little rebel and heretic,” cried Gas- 
par, dealing the boy a cruel blow on the face, as he 
struggled to get free. 

Eugene uttered no cry of pain, but looking up with 
flashing eyes in the man’s face, he said boldly, “ T am 





28 


The Huguenot Family. 

neither rebel nor heretic, and who are you that dare 
strike me 

“ Dare indeed ! I shall soon teach you that. Hark 
ye, young jackanapes, kneel down this moment at that 
reverend father^s feet, and swear to be a good Catholic 
from this day and for ever.’^ 

“ I shall not,” said Eugene, in a loud firm voice ; “I 
was born a Huguenot, and a Huguenot I shall die !” 

“Die then!” cried the man, as he lifted him up, 
placed him on his own horse, so that Marie and Theo¬ 
dore could fully see his position and his danger, and, 
holding him on with one hand, presented a pistol to his 
head with the other. 

Still Eugene uttered no^ cry, made no useless effort 
to escape. Although all colour fled from cheek and lip, 
he yet gazed unshrinkingly at the pistol for two or three 
seconds before he turned what he believed was his last 
look upon his father and mother. Then, and not till 
then, the large tears filled his eyes, and rolled slowly 
down his cheeks. 

Marie bore this scene the best. Her own feelings 
were swallowed up in intense sympathy for the others. 
As she clung to her husband, she gave more support 
than she received, and in spite of the natural horror she 
felt at the thought of witnessing her own child’s murder, 
she forced herself to look steadily towards him, that he 
might to the very end have the consolation of meeting 
her eyes, and reading her love and sympathy in them. 
She even tried to speak words of comfort; but that was 
an effort beyond her strength—her lips moved, but no 
sound came forth. 

When he first saw his boy in the grasp of the rufSan 
Caspar, Theodore had made a frantic effort to go to his 





The Trial, 


29 


rescue, but foiled by tbe crossed pikes of tbe men round 
him, be had covered his eyes with his hand, that he 
might at least shut out the sight of what was to follow. 
He could not shut out the loud, fierce “ Die then I” 
that accompanied the presenting of the pistol; and as he 
heard it, his head fell on his chest, his whole body bent 
forward, he seemed on the point of falling to the ground. 
After some moments, however, he recovered his com¬ 
posure a little; gradually he raised himself again to his 
full height, and although he kept his head turned away, 
he uncovered his eyes, and his countenance resumed its 
expression of stern determination, mixed with a certain 
degree of contempt for his persecutors. 

Father Joseph had watched intently—he now turned 
to Gaspar, saying decidedly, “ It is enough, we see 
which way the wind blows—set the boy free.’' 

Gaspar made a significant motion of his forefinger 
towards the trigger of the pistol, and looked up inquir¬ 
ingly as if to ask if that was the setting free his com¬ 
panion meant. 

“ Ho, no,” the priest said quickly, “ they have 
nerved themselves to bear the boy’s death. It would 
only harden them now ; we are on the right track, Gas¬ 
par, only we must see that the trial be protracted 
enough; a short one, however severe, will not do the 
business ; set down the boy, and let him go.” 

Gaspar obeyed, and Eugene sprang forward to his 
mother. At a sign from their leader, the men suffered 
him to pass, and sobbing and weeping now, like the 
very child he was, he threw himself into her arms. 
Still the keen eyes of Father Joseph held their vigilant 
watch, and as he saw Marie’s eyes, hitherto so tearless, 
overflow, her hands hitherto so rigid, tremble even in 



30 


The Huguenot Family, 


their grasp of her rescued child, he remarked compla¬ 
cently, “We have done some good by that stroke—we 
have unnerved them for the strife that is to follow.” 

And he was right; the unexpected relief from alarm 
had unnerved both parents more than the alarm itself. 
And in so far as their power to endure lay in their own 
strength, bodily or mental, that power was lessened by 
what they had undergone. It is true that Marie, lean¬ 
ing on the arm of One who is Almighty, was, in her 
greatest weakness, strong in His strength. But that 
was a matter Father Joseph could hardly be expected 
to understand, and it was therefore with unmixed satis¬ 
faction that he turned to discuss with Gaspar the best 
mode of proceeding in plans so promising. In this 
discussion the other ecclesiastic joined. 

Father Joseph suggested, and the others concurred, 
that it would be best to leave parents and children alone 
for the rest of that night. “ Shut them up together,” 
he said, “ in a room in the chateau. A whole night 
of suspense, the presence, the terrors, ay, even in such 
circumstances the caresses of the children, must cer¬ 
tainly shake the father's constancy.” 

This agreed to, Gaspar, with some of his men, went 
to the chMeau to make the required arrangements. In 
a short time he returned, and conducted his victims to 
the prison prepared for them. 

The room chosen for this purpose was a long gloomy 
hall in the lower part of the chateau. It had not been 
used for years, except that on stated occasions the de¬ 
pendants of the family were assembled here to receive 
their dole of food and clothing. The only furniture 
was a long table, some rude wooden stools, and a truckle 
bed which Gaspar had caused his men to bring in from 



The Trial, 


31 


one of the servant’s rooms. The gloom and discomfort 
of the place had been its recommendation to the man’s 
choice. 

Here, beside their other children, Theodore and 
Marie found their faithful old bonne, Marguerite. 
Fondly attached to her young charge, ignorant, some¬ 
what weak in intellect, and thinking only how they 
might be saved from pain and sorrow,—Father Joseph 
had easily discerned that she might prove an auxiliary 
to their cause, and had directed that she should be shut 
up with her master and mistress. 

Baby was in her arms, he was not yet weaned, and 
was crying bitterly for his accustomed food. As soon 
as the door was closed upon them, Marie hastened to 
take him and give him what he craved. She sat 
down for that purpose under one of the windows at the 
far end of the room, and bending over the treasure she 
had never expected again to embrace, feeding her eyes 
and heart with the infantile grace and beauty she had 
never expected again to see, she was too much absorbed 
to notice the re-opening of the door, and the entrance 
of Gaspar and Father Joseph, in their passage through 
the room to a door in the end at which she sat. 

A kind of chuckle from the brutal Gaspar was the 
first intimation she had of their presence. Looking 
hastily up she saw them standing before her, regarding 
with triumphant smiles the manifestations of her love. 
A sharp pang shot through her heart at the sight. 
Instinctively she felt what these smiles portended; and 
as she clasped her baby tighter in her arms, and drew 
away even the skirt of his little robe from the risk of 
contamination in touching them, she grew cold and 
faint at the thought of what was to follow. For the 




32 


The Huguenot Family. 


present her fears were groundless. The men passed 
on, and Marie was able to breathe more freely, to look 
round upon her other children, and to give them the 
comfort they required. 

It was summer, and although the evening was far 
advanced, and the windows were few, narrow, and 
placed high in the wall, yet there was light enough to 
allow her only too easily to read the grief and conster¬ 
nation painted on the pale young faces, lifted so be¬ 
seechingly to hers, appealing for help and. protection 
she was powerless to give. Struggling bravely against 
the tremors, which every now and then shook her whole 
frame, and striving to call back their usual cheerful¬ 
ness to her looks and tones, she soothed and comforted 
by caresses and words of affection. In her own simple 
way she spoke to them of the love and care of their 
Father in heaven; told them that she felt assuredly that 
not one of these fierce men could lift a finger against 
them without that Father’s permission; that it was in 
very love, and because He knew it to be best for them, 
that He had suffered this sorrow to come; that in the 
midst of it all His eye was ever upon them. He knew 
exactly what they felt, and His heart was full of love 
and pity for them all. She reminded them of what the 
Lord Jesus Christ had done and suffered, that He might 
redeem them to Himself; and encouraged them to be¬ 
lieve, that He who had bought them at such a price, 
would never leave nor forsake them. Theodore listened 
to her, but with a gloomy brow ; her words reached only 
his ears, the comfort they contained did not revive his 
heart as it did hers. Seeing this, she, with the wisdom 
of love, applied to him for assistance in her work, and 
her device succeeded. He sat down by her side, and 




The Trial. 


33 


with the little girls nestling in his arms, Eugene 
leaning on his mother's shoulder, and the baby sleep¬ 
ing peacefully on her knee, he began to repeat such 
passages as be knew were familiar to the little ones, 
and as were suited to give them the comfort they 
required. 

He gave them first that Psalm of comfort, the 23d; 
and, as each word was slowly pronounced in his deep, 
manly voice, the good and loving Shepherd seemed to 
each one of the party to be very near. Then followed 
such passages as Isaiah xl. 11,—“ He shall feed his 
flock like a shepherd; he shall gather the lambs 
with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall 
gently lead those that are with young." Isaiah Ixiii. 
9,—“ In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the 
angel of his presence saved them: in his love and 
in his pity he redeemed them, and he bare them, 
and carried them all the days of old." Deuteronomy 
xxxii. 11, 12,—“ As an eagle stirreth up her nest, flut- 
tereth over her young, spreadeth abroad her wings, 
taketh them, beareth them on her wings ; so the Lord 
alone did lead him." And Psalm xxxiv. 7, 15,—“ The 
angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that 
fear him, and delivereth them. The eyes of the Lord 
are upon the righteous, and his ears are open to their 
cry." 

Hever before had their parents exercised such power 
over the hearts of their young ones as on this night ,* 
never before had their instructions been so precious 
to them. Out in the bright sunshine, among their 
birds and flowers, they had liked to think of God’s 
care and love, and had rejoiced in the consciousness of 
His presence. But a thousandfold more precious were 




34 The Huguenot Family. 


such thoughts and consciousness now, in that dark, 
dreary place, where they were no longer mere acces¬ 
saries to an enjoyment sufficiently great in itself, but 
rather the only rest and stay for their trembling, 
wearied spirits, the one haven of peace and safety from 
the tempestuous ocean of dread and sorrow. 

‘‘ I am not afraid, now that God is beside me,” lisped 
little Aimee, resting her head on the breast of that 
earthly father, whose love was to her such a realizing 
type of what the Father in heaven felt for her. 

“ And Jesus Christ knows all about how sorry and 
frightened we are. He sees how dark and uncomfortable 
this room is, so different from our own nice nursery, 
and He is very sorry for us. I like to know that,” said 
Hortense. 

“ The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” 
Eugene repeated thoughtfully. “ Shall not, shall never 
want. The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous. 
His ears are open to their cry. But,” with a shade of 
sadness and doubt, “ it is the righteous.” 

“ Eighteous in Christ’s righteousness,” said his 
mother quickly, speaking to his thoughts even more 
than his words. “ You know what that means, my 
darling boy.” 

“ He hath made Him to be sin for us who knew no 
sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God 
in Him,” Eugene repeated with an emphasis which 
made the mother’s heart leap for joy, even in that 
moment of trial. 

Thus some time passed peacefully away. But night 
came on. The stone floor of the room was damp and 
cold. The windows were not glazed, being mere loop¬ 
holes in the wall. The weather was stormy, and, con- 



The Trial, 


35 


sidering tlie time of year, might even be called cold; 
and the wind blew in tbrougb these openings, with a 
cbillness which their light summer dresses were ill calcu¬ 
lated to resist. The little ones shivered with cold, and 
complained of hunger, and the poor parents could 
neither get them warmth nor food, all their entreaties 
to that effect having been churlishly denied. 

' Marguerite, so far from being a help to them, 
added to their cares, exciting vague fears in the chil¬ 
dren’s minds by her frequent exclamations, that she 
saw, felt, or heard something near her in the darkness, 
and bewildering them more by her weeping entreaties 
to her master and mistress, that they would not sacri¬ 
fice themselves and their children for nothing, but 
yield obedience to their jailers in what was a mere 
form. 

To silence her, and to soothe the little girls, Marie 
tried to sing one of their favourite hymns. But at the 
first trembling notes, the sentinel at the door came in, 
and harshly commanded silence, threatening, if the 
offence were repeated, that he would take away the 
children, and lock them up in a room by themselves. 
Such a threat was equally terrible to parents and chil¬ 
dren, and henceforth they trembled even to whisper to 
each other. 

But, happily, young hearts and young bodies cannot 
be kept long awake even by suffering. Sleep soon 
began to weigh down the eyelids heavy with tears, and 
to bring her own kindly forgetfulness to the wearied, 
fearful spirits. They could not be laid down in com¬ 
fortable postures to rest, for there was no covering to 
spread over them, and the warmth their father could 
impart was all too necessary. But broken as their 



36 


The Huguenot Family, 


slumbers might be from such a cause, it was yet a relief 
to both themselves and their anxious parents. 

Marguerite’s trying babble was also hushed by the 
same kind friend. Her fears, real and imaginary, and 
her ceremonious respect for her master and mistress, 
caused her, for a little, to resist its approach. But 
gradually her head nodded forward until it found rest 
on the table, and for some hours the only disturbance 
she caused them was the very slight one of her loud 
snoring. 

Eugene alone remained to share his parents^ sad 
watch. Marie was perplexed how to dispose of him for 
the night. The soldiers had brought in a truckle bed. 
But that was only to serve their own purpose, and they 
had taken care to leave behind all the coverings which 
might have added to the comfort of the poor prisoners. 
Marie feared to allow her delicately nurtured boy to fall 
asleep without some means of preserving the warmth 
of his body. While she was anxiously turning the 
matter over in her mind, she was startled by Eugene’s 
abrupt question— 

“ Mamma, are you afraid ?” 

“ Hot at all afraid that anything can happen to me 
without the will of my loving Father in heaven,” was 
the prompt reply. 

“ And were you not afraid when you saw the pistol 
at my head ?” 

A strong shudder at the remembrance came over 
her, but she answered firmly, passing her arm tenderly 
around him, “ Afraid that I should never again hold 
my boy in my arms, but not at all afraid that God had 
forgotten to take care of us, or did not see what 
happening to us.” 


was 



The Trial. 


37 


‘‘ And if I had died then, do yon think, mamma, 
that I should ever have seen you again? Do you 
think I should have gone to heaven ?” he asked, in a 
low smothered tone. 

Again she shivered violently, as if struck with sud¬ 
den pain. 

“ My darling,” she said, “ that is a question for you 
to answer—I cannot.” 

There was a pause, and then the answer came slow 
and decided : “ No, mamma, I should not.” 

“ And are you content it should he so ?” she asked 
solemnly. 

“ No, mamma; hut what can I do ? You have told 
me that God must punish sin. I know I am a sinful 
hoy. I never knew it before—never understood it all 
before ; hut I do now.” 

“ ‘ He hath made Him to he sin for us who knew no 
sin, that we might he made the righteousness of God 
in Him,’ ” Marie repeated, slowly and emphatically. 

“ And is that enough, mamma, to save even me?” 
he asked breathlessly. 

‘‘ Ah ! is it not enough, my son ?” was her earnest 
answer. “ If Christ have borne the punishment of your 
sins, the faithful and just God will certainly forgive 
them all,—blot them all out of His sight. If Christ 
give you His perfect righteousness to he counted as 
yours, must not you he lovely and acceptable in God’s 
sight ? What more can you want ?” 

“ Nothing!” he exclaimed joyfully. “ Oh, mamma, 
I see it all now; I ought to have seen it before. But, 
mamma, I think God has made me see it now, because 
He knows how sorrowful we are here in this dark 
dreary place, and He wishes to give us something to 





38 


The Huguenot Family. 


make us kappy. I am not afraid now, mamma. And 
since Christ Jesus is beside us all, I think I can very 
easily go to sleep. I am weary.” And he laid his 
head on her shoulder. 

She looked anxiously up at him. The moon had 
risen, and as now and then the wildly driving clouds 
were parted, she shone into the dreary room, so that 
they could see each other's faces. By that pale light 
the boy’s face looked wan and worn, and Marie felt 
equally afraid to keep him awake the whole night, and 
to allow him to fall asleep without protection from the 
cold. 

Theodore saw her perplexity, and advised her to lie 
down beside him on the bed, when they could give 
each other warmth. 

She hesitated. How could she leave her husband 
to sit alone in that gloomy place ? And how could he 
support the fatigue of keeping the two girls in his 
arms all night ? 

“ Ah! suffer me to have them,” he said gloomily. 

Who knows how long I may have the privilege of 
holding them in my arms I” 

Marie did not remonstrate; but the sadness of his 
tones only confirmed her in the resolution not to leave 
him alone. And profiting by the transient moonlight, 
she set at once about making arrangements for the 
comfort of all. The bed was too narrow to hold more 
than two; but, by lying across it, she believed they 
might all be accommodated. She made Eugene lie 
down, and placed a stool in front for his feet to rest 
upon. She placed her sleeping baby beside him, put 
two stools for her own place, and three a little further 
down for her husband. 



The Trial. 


39 


“ Now,” she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, 

see how comfortably I have managed. If I am not 
a stool’s breadth taller than Eugene, you are more 
than that taller than me; so that I am sure I have 
calculated very fairly. Do try it—to please me, do.” 

And he was unable to resist her pleading; but hav¬ 
ing laid down his two charges, he took his place 
beside them. 

For some hours the children slept quietly, but not 
the parents ; their hearts were too full for sleep. To 
Marie’s surprise, it was gratitude and joy that occupied 
the greater part of her thoughts;—gratitude for the 
special manifestation of His love and presence her 
Saviour had blessed her with; and gratitude, 0 how 
fervent! for His gracious dealings with her hitherto 
careless boy. 

“ I am not afraid; no, I am not afraid,” she thought. 
“ The Lord has the charge of us all; of what can I be 
afraid?” 

The texture of Theodore’s thoughts was more varied. 
Yielding to the sway of his vivid imagination, the 
quick alternations of brilliant sunshine and gloomy 
darkness which passed over his mind, were very diffe¬ 
rent from the resting faith of hers, and far less fitted 
to strengthen him for the coming conflict. 

Soon after daylight appeared Gaspar, and Father 
Joseph, with several other soldiers, came in. Theodore 
and Marie rose hastily at the first sound of their foot¬ 
steps approaching the door, and stood looking anxiously 
at all their children, as if asking by means of which 
one among them the next trial was to come. They 
were not left long in suspense. Gaspar rudely snatched 
the baby from Marie’s arms. The other children, still 



40 


The Huguenot Family, 


half asleep, were with equal rudeness raised from the 
bed, Marie thrown upon it, and her feet made fast to 
the bar at the bottom; while two men seized Theo¬ 
dore, tied his arms behind his back, and bound him 
on one of the stools, in such a position as that he 
could easily see all the sufferings of wife and child. 
They were then told by Gaspar, that the little Theo¬ 
dore’s life was in their hands; that not one morsel of 
food should pass his lips until they had declared their 
intention of obeying the king, by renouncing their 
abominable heresy, and, in token of their sincerity, 
had consented to hear mass, and had made the sign of 
the holy cross. 

Silence was the parents’ only response; the agony 
of their hearts was too great for speech. But, aH I 
who can tell what that agony was,—doomed to sit by 
helpless, while the child they loved better than their 
lives perished before their eyes of that cruel death— 
starvation. I cannot describe it—cannot even imagine 
it; and, if I could, I am very sure my young readers 
could not bear to hear it. 

Marie’s only resource was in prayer,—in a constant 
committing and recommitting of herself, and of all she 
loved, into the hands of her loving Saviour,—a constant 
looking up to the Lord, under whose wings she had 
come to trust. Ah ! how often did that cry of agony go 
up from her heart, “ Save, Lord, or I perish.” How 
often was the precious answer, “ Fear not, I am with 
thee,”—as a tower of strength into which her sorely 
tried soul fled for refuge, and was safe. Had not God 
enabled her thus to relieve her overburdened heart by 
prayer, her reason, or her life itself, must have given 
way in the intensity of anguish she endured. 



The Trial. 


41 


Father Joseph did not molest her mnch with his 
conversation. As we know, he had early been con¬ 
vinced that she was to prove no favourable subject for 
his proselytizing labours. He confined his efforts to 
the Count. Sitting down beside him, he endeavoured 
first to gain his attention and favour by expressing the 
warmest sympathy and compassion for him, before he 
began any more direct aiming at the desired result of 
his conversion. Even when he did proceed further, it 
was with the utmost caution and moderation. He did 
not attempt argument; he even seemed to take it for 
granted that the Count’s creed was as good as his own ; 
but he painted in lively colours the king’s obstinate 
adherence to his purposes, the absolute power of the 
hardened, reckless men, in whose hands the whole 
family now were ;—represented that the forms required 
of them were mere forms, and hinted at the practica¬ 
bility of retaining their present opinions, even while 
doing their duty to the king, by obeying his orders in 
such mere outward matters. Although he received no 
answer from the Count, yet observing the expression of 
gloom and depression on his countenance, he saw little 
ground of discouragement in his silence; and could 
he have penetrated into his thoughts, he might have 
seen still less.. Poor Theodore was utterly cast 
down. He could neither think nor pray. His whole 
mind was filled by but one thought, and that was the 
misery his Marie must be enduring. Upon this his 
imagination dwelt continually,—representing, with ter¬ 
rible vividness, every feeling or association that could 
aggravate it, and even exaggerating its amount, in so 
far, that no account was made of the presence of that 
God who has called Himself the God of all comfort; 

n 




42 


The Huguenot Family. 


•who, in fulfilment of His own promises, was with her 
in the fire, watching over its heat; suiting His supply 
of grace to every moment’s need, and making her feel 
His everlasting arms underneath her. 

And so the time passed heavily on. The other 
children had been taken ’ away, because Eugene and 
Hortense had tried to comfort their parents and each 
other by repeating texts of Scripture and verses of 
hymns; and Gaspar had perceived that such words, 
coming from such lips, had a wonderful power to 
revive and refresh the spirits of the father and mother. 
Twice in the course of each day food was brought in, 
and they were forced to partake of it,—their guards 
being equally anxious to preserve their capacity to 
suffer, and to weaken their strength to endure. This, 
with the occasional changing of their guards, was all 
that broke in upon the monotony of suffering, as the 
soft, low tones of the priest, the mocking, often blas¬ 
phemous speeches of the soldiers, were the only inter¬ 
ruption to the heart-rending cries of the poor baby. 

But such a scene is too painful to dwell upon. The 
end is drawing near. For hours the baby’s cries have 
been rapidly getting feebler, and now, for some minutes, 
they have wholly ceased. Marie believes all is over. 
She has closed her eyes, and is trying io thank God for 
her darling’s release, when she is aroused by a moan 
exceeding faint, exceeding piteous, at her very ear. 
She starts up. The soldier who is holding the child 
has brought him to her side, that she may see his dying 
agonies. She stretches out her arms imploringly, 
begging to have him for a moment, only one moment. 
The man draws him back just out of her reach. 

“ You can have him whenever you like,” he says, 



The Trial, 


43 


“ have him for altogether, if you will only do as you 
are bid. Come now, one little sign of the cross, and 
all is over. He is yours for ever, to do what you please 
with.’' 

“ Do make it, lady,” urged another soldier, more 
tender-hearted than his fellows. He was a father. 
“ Do make it, and save his life. There is yet time. 
Or allow me to make it for you. That can be no sin.” 
And he came eagerly up to the bed. 

This device had succeeded with many a poor mother, 
driven mad by the sight of sufferings she could not alle¬ 
viate, and which she would have given her own life to 
prevent. But Marie, strong in a strength not her own, 
could not be so overcome. She gently drew back her 
head from his outstretched finger, and with a look of 
gratitude for his pity, turned again to her baby. 

Suddenly his whole frame was convulsed, his chest 
heaved fearfully, his eye-balls turned up in the sockets, 
his arms were thrown out, as if in a last appeal for 
help. Marie gave a piercing scream, and endeavoured 
to spring out of bed. The shackles at her feet pre¬ 
vented her. Her strength could hold out no longer. 
She fell back fainting on the mattress. 

The swoon was very long. Those around sometimes 
feared it was to death. Once or twice there was a 
slight fluttering of the pulse, a slight quivering of the 
eye-lids, but more than half an hour passed before she 
became at all sensible of what was passing around her. 

When she did recover consciousness, the whole scene 
was changed. She was on a sofa in one of the saloons. 
Her husband bent over her, holding a glass of cordial 
to her lips. The little girls knelt weeping and sobbing 
at her feet. At first, all seemed a fearful dream. 



44 The Huguenot Family, 

“Is any tiling wrong? Where is baby?^* She 
asked. 

“ Here, in Marguerite’s arms,” was Theodore’s hesi¬ 
tating reply. 

It awoke her at once to the consciousness that all the 
past was too real. A false temporary strength was 
lent her by the depth of her anxiety ; and, springing 
up, she hastened to him. He lay on Marguerite’s 
knee. 

“ See, see,” the poor bonne cried exultingly. “ All 
will yet be well. He has swallowed that last mouth¬ 
ful. Do not fear, Madame,—if he can only swallow, he 
must soon get round again.” 

Alas, poor mother I you are not deceived as Mar¬ 
guerite is. You can read the words “ too late,” writ¬ 
ten on every feature of that poor, wasted face. Never 
more shall that dry throat be able to swallow. Al¬ 
ready the few drops of milk Marguerite had forced into 
his mouth, are slowly oozing out through his closed 
gums. 

Marie took him in her arms, and hung over him in 
speechless, tearless agony. Never more shall those 
sunken eyes brighten at her approach. Never more 
shall those parched lips meet her own in sweet, laughing 
kisses. Never more shall those stiff, cold hands clasp 
her neck, smooth her cheek, or play with her hair. Al¬ 
ready another convulsion fit has seized the little frame. 
Marguerite and the father turn away. They cannot 
look upon his agony. It is almost too much for even a 
mother’s fortitude to bear. But the struggle is short. 
The fit has passed away, and life has passed away 
with it. 

Marie closed his eyes, composed the poor, con- 



The Trial. 


45 


torted limbs, pressed her lips in a long lingering kiss 
on his forehead, and then with her usual self-forget¬ 
fulness, gave him to Marguerite, while she turned 
to comfort her husband, whose agonized groan had 
reached her ear, even while listening for her murdered 
darling's last sigh. 

She knelt down beside the sofa upon which he had 
thrown himself, took his hand in both her own, andlaying 
her face close to his on the pillow, she whispered softly— 

“ His sorrow and pain are all over now, dearest 
Theodore. He is in the Saviour’s arms, and nothing 
can ever hurt him more.” 

He made no answer, except by a deep groan, and 
moved impatiently away from her, as if fretted at the 
very thought of comfort. 

“ You do not grudge his going a little before us, 
when he has gone to be so happy, to be for ever with 
the Lord?” she asked in a feeble tone. Her lately 
recovered strength was fast melting away, 

“ But I do grudge him,” he cried fiercely, starting 
up into a sitting posture. “ When I have paid such a 
terrible price for his life. When I have abjured the 
faith, denied my Lord, sold my own soul that he might 
live.” 

A pang shot through Marie’s heart, more severe than 
any she had yet endured. A sickness as of death came 
over her. A blinding mist rose before her eyes. The 
ground seemed to sink away under her. She clung 
tremblingly, desperately to her husband, while she tried 
to say, “Ho, no, you did not, you could not.” But 
the words died on her lips, even as the hope in their 
truth faded from her heart. 

Theodore, in the depth of his own misery, seemed 



46 The Huguenot Family, 

unconscious of hers, and went on in the same fierce 
tone. 

“ You cannot he surprised to hear this. How did you 
suppose you had been suffered to come here? How 
did you think he had been allowed to die in your 
arms? You could not fancy these miscreants could 
have had mercy or pity? That would have been a 
bright fancy indeed And he laughed a laugh most 
appalling in its bitterness, and unsuitableness to time 
and circumstance. 

Marie did not hear it. Unconsciousness had again 
come to her relief. Her grasp relaxed, she sank gentlj 
on the floor. 

With the strength and calmness of despair he raised 
her, and laid her on the sofa. He was beginning, with 
Marguerite’s help, to apply the remedies that had be¬ 
fore been successful, when the door opened softly, and 
Father Joseph looked in. 

“ Are you ready, my son ?” he asked in his low soft 
tones. 

“ Ho, I am not,” was the decided reply. “ See, the 
news of my worthy doings has killed my wife. Do 
you expect me to leave her till life is at least quite 
gone?” 

The priest came up, felt Marie’s pulse, held his hand 
a moment before her lips. 

“ The swoon is not so severe as the last,” he said. 
“ She is beginning to revive already. This good woman 
can do all that is necessary. And, indeed, my son, we 
can delay no longer. These soldiers are so fierce, so 
relentless, I cannot answer for the consequences if you 
keep them waiting even another minute.” 

It was an implied, if not a direct lie. The soldiers 



The Trial. 


47 


were then more than a mile from the chateau, as he 
very well knew. When Theodore followed him into 
the ante-room, there was no one there except two or 
three monks hastily summoned from a neighbouring 
monastery, to bear a part in the performance of solemn 
mass in the chapel. 

But Theodore was quite unconscious of the deceit. 
He observed nothing, saw nothing. He had obeyed the 
priest’s summons, because he believed his presence 
would give his wife more pain than pleasure when 
consciousness returned. He followed Father Joseph 
mechanically to the chapel. Mechanically he obeyed 
the instructions of the monk stationed by his side, to 
direct him ; rose up, sat down, stood, and knelt without 
the least thought of what he did ;—the one fearful 
consciousness that he had ruined his soul by his apo¬ 
stasy, pressing like a dull, dead weight on heart and 
brain, and shutting out every other idea or feeling. , i 




CHAPTER IV. 


THE DELIVERER. 

ES, it was even so. He liad apostatized. His 
constancy had been terribly tried, terribly 
shaken, during the last few hours of bis baby's 
sufferings. And when be saw bis Marie fall 
back, apparently dying, it gave way altoge¬ 
ther. 

“ Set me free, let me go to her, and I will 
make the sign of the cross when you please,” 
be cried breathless with eagerness to get to her side. 

“ And go to mass, my son?” gently insinuated the 
priest. 

“ Go anywhere, do anything, everything ! Only let 
me go to her.” 

And instantly bis bonds were cut. He was set free. 
A passing glance shewed him that the little Theodore 
was still alive. And in a voice of imperious authority 
be commanded, that the bonne should be summoned, 
and the child given into her charge. In this also 
prompt obedience was accorded. 

He seized Marie's death-cold hand, kissed her pas¬ 
sionately again and again, calling on her to look up, 
and speak to him. But there was no movement, no 
sign of life. 

“ Wretches, you have killed her, and shall answer 




The Deliverer. 


49 


for it with your own lives/’ he cried frantically, spring¬ 
ing upon one of the soldiers near him. 

Father Joseph interfered. 

“ Not so, not so, my son, she lives, and will do well. 
This is only a swoon,” he said. “ I understand medi¬ 
cine, and can soon restore her.” 

At these words the Count at once loosed his fierce 
grasp, and turned again to the bed with eager hope, 
hut still Marie lay motionless, apparently not breath¬ 
ing. 

“ She can never recover in this place,” he exclaimed 
impatiently. ‘‘Call my servants. Let her be instantly 
carried into another room.” 

“No, indeed,” Gaspar said very coolly. “Although 
you have come to your senses, we have no evidence 
that she has. Each man stands upon his own merits. 
Your obedience cannot avail her.” 

“It cannot? Well then, I instantly retract it. I 

swear that to the latest day of my life I shall never- 

The words were hastily interrupted by Father Joseph. 

“Patience, patience, my ^on,” he said, “all shall yet 
be as you wish;” and drawing Gaspar aside, he remon¬ 
strated with him warmly on the danger of refusing 
compliance. 

The Count’s conversion, he urged, was far more 
desired by the king than his death. In his present 
state of feeling, to drive him to extremities was the sure 
way to lose all hold over him. Unless he openly pro¬ 
claimed his adherence to the Catholic faith, they should 
not obtain the large reward offered for his conversion. 
Let them once get that great point accomplished, 
by the use of gentle means, which would alone avail, 
and they could deal with the lady' at a future time. 




50 


The Huguenot Family. 


Avarice was less the besetting sin of Gaspar than of 
the priest. Eanatical devotion to his religion was his 
governing motive. And it was doubtful if Father 
Joseph could have prevailed, had not a third person 
appeared on the scene, namely, the officer who com¬ 
manded the troops now at the chateau. 

*In billeting the soldiers engaged in the dragonnades 
especial care was generally taken to separate the men 
from the officers, in order that the gentler feelings and 
habits of the one might be no restraint upon the coarse 
violence and cruelty of the-others. In this case such 
an arrangement was more peculiarly called for, as the 
Baron de Baynal was peculiarly unfitted to take part in 
such scenes,—young, brave, talented, and generous, the 
commission now intrusted to him was not more revolt¬ 
ing to his feelings than humbling to his pride. He had 
made every effort to evade it, and would have openly 
refused compliance had he dared. In'these times, how¬ 
ever, it was no light thing to incur the imputation of 
being favourable to the Huguenots, and such imputation 
was particularly hazardous to a man like the Baron, 
thirsting for an opportunity of distinguishing himself, 
and sustained by no high principle. On arriving at 
the scene of action, it had been a great relief to him 
to find that a merely passive part had been assigned to 
him. And he entered eagerly into every amusement 
the neighbourhood afforded, in order to banish even the 
thought of the tragedy enacting near him. Hor was 
success difficult, for the question at issue was utterly 
uninteresting to him. More infidel than Catholic, he 
had not the least sympathy with the persecutors, and 
only so much with the persecuted as unjust oppression 

* Historical 




The Deliverer. 


51 


must awaken in every generous breast. Intent upon 
keeping himself ignorant of every detail, he had not 
even taken his share in the preliminary business of 
arranging the billets for the different parties of men; 
but affecting indisposition, he had left it altogether to his 
subordinate officers. In this way he had avoided hear¬ 
ing even the names of the places to which they were 
sent, or of the victims given up to their mercy. His 
own quarters were fixed in a town at a considerable 
distance, and he heard little or no mention of the busi¬ 
ness in the gay circles among which he moved. One and 
another conversion were reported to him, and he knew 
that his men had moved from one to another post. 
But as each removal only carried them farther from him, 
he gave himself no concern about the matter, and 
asked no questions. Hor was it necessary he should. 
His interference was not required, was not wished for. 
And it was a well-understood thing in all such trans¬ 
actions, that the men were to remain until their business 
was well done, and then to rejoin their leader without 
summons. 

On the morning of the day on which little Theodore 
died, the Baron was engaged in a hunting expedition 
with some of the neighbouring gentlemen, when one of 
the party happened to allude to the “glorious work of 
conversion” going on near them, and the He Blancards 
were named as among the sufferers. The intelligence fell 
upon him like a thunder-bolt. His childhood and youth 
had been passed in the immediate neighbourhood of 
Beauchardis. In spite of difference of creed, he had 
been intimate with the family, had been much attached 
to Hubert and Theodore, while Marie he had passion¬ 
ately loved. The consideration that she belonged to a 



52 


The Huguenot Family, 


persecuted and despised sect liad been insufficient to 
restrain him from suing for her hand, insufficient to 
console him for the pain of being refused. He had left 
the country immediately, had been on foreign service 
ever since, had not seen Marie again, had not heard 
her name mentioned, and* yet her image was as fresh 
as ever in his mind; no fair one, however charming, 
had been able to take her place in his heart. To 
soften his disappointment, he had at the time been told 
of Marie’s engagement. But he had either never 
heard, or had quite forgotten in what part of the 
country Theodore’s property lay. So that up to this 
moment he had not even dreamt of the possibility of 
being near her. 

“ Who was Madame de Blancard ?” he asked eagerly’; 
a faint hope remaining that he might be mistaken, that 
the fear which had driven all colour from his cheek 
might prove groundless. 

“ Ah! there indeed you puzzle me,” answered his 
companion, shrugging his shoulders. “I keep no 
register of the births, marriages, or deaths of such des¬ 
picable cattle as these Huguenots.” 

Hardly hearing him to the end, the Baron turned 
his horse’s head and galloped back to the rear of the 
party, to put the same question to his host, who rode 
there. This time he was more successful, The Count 
de Mercoeur knew all about the Blancards. It was 
their present situation which took from him all interest 
in his favourite amusement, and made him lag behind 
so dull and listless. He confirmed De Baynal’s worst 
fears. ^ - 

‘‘ She was a De Beauchardis, and is one of the sweetest, 
gentlest, fairest creatures in the world,he said feel- 



The Deliverer. 


53 


ingly. “ But,” as lie saw the Baron gather up his 
reins, settle himself in his seat for a gallop, and turn 
his horse in the direction from whence they had come, 
“ What is the matter? Where are you going?” 

“ To save her 1” was the short answer; and, setting 
spurs to his horse, he would have ridden on, had not 
the Count, at great risk both to himself and the young 
man, caught the bridle, and checked the horse in his 
first bound forward. 

“ Friend, what is it you would do ?” he said earnestly. 
“ Do you know how dangerous it is to iuterfere in such 
matters ? It may cost you rank, the king’s favour, 
everything you most prize, and do her not the least 
good.” 

“ Sooner would I lose life itself than that one hair of 
her head should be injured,” he answered vehemently; 
and, taking advantage of his horse’s beginning to plunge 
and rear from being fretted at the sudden check it had 
received, he extricated his rein from the other’s grasp, 
and galloped at full speed down the road. 

It maddened him even to think of what might have 
been suffered by his own beloved Marie. That she, 
so delicately reared and so tenderly cared for, should 
be exposed to the brutal violence of such men as he 
knew were among his own troop. That she, so joyous, 
BO light-hearted, so formed for scenes of brightness and 
gaiety, should be passing through such horrible perse¬ 
cutions as had made his blood run cold to hear described, 
even when the sufferers were perfectly indifferent or 
unknown. That she, the one idol of his heart, should 
suffer all this, avowedly under his sanction, by his 
authority. He groaned aloud, and urged his horse to 
his utmost speed. 



5i 


The Huguenot Family. 


Could he have reached the chateau in the first half- 
hour of his ride, he would no doubt have fulfilled the 
Count’s prediction, and compromised his own safety 
without benefiting his friends. But the distance was 
considerable. The mad headlong pace at which he 
rode soon exhausted his horse. He was forced to stop, 
and get it exchanged for a fresh one as he passed 
through the town where he was quartered. And thus 
he had time to think, and to view the case in all its 
bearings. At such a time, with such a state of feeling, 
mere selfish considerations had no weight. But when 
he reflected, that to throw away his favour at Court, 
and the influence his high services had gained him, 
was to deprive himself of all future opportunities of 
serving Marie, he was at once aroused to the necessity 
of prudence and moderation. 

He saw, further, that the rescue of his friends was 
by no means impossible, even in the way which caution 
might dictate. One peculiarity of these dragonnades was 
their legalized lawlessness, so to speak. Although the 
soldiers were let loose upon the defenceless Huguenots 
for the very purpose of forcing them to apostatize, yet 
such purpose was by no means avowed. They were 
billeted in such and such numbers, upon such and such 
individuals, because the service of the state required 
it. These same individuals were bound to provide them 
with food and lodging, and the soldiers were authorized 
to enforce their claims if necessary, but their commission 
ostensibly extended no farther. True, they were liber¬ 
ally rewarded for all the forced conversions they were 
the means of bringing about. True, the cruelties they 
used for this purpose were well known. But these 
cruelties were still rather ignored than authorized, and 



The Deliverer. 


55 


De Eaynal felt that it was competent for him to restrain 
his men in the exercise of such violence, without lay¬ 
ing himself open to the blame of favouring the Hugue¬ 
nots. At least, such a charge could not he openly brought 
against him. And by prudence he believed he might 
even avert its secret influence. 

He arrived at the scene of action, just when Gaspar 
and the monk were arguing about their next proceedings, 
and when Theodore, flnding his commands and his 
entreaties unattended to, was endeavouring with trem¬ 
bling, nerveless fingers to cut or unfasten the cords 
that bound Marie to the bed. 

The door of the room was open, and the exclamation 
of “ Mon Capitaine” from the men outside, the rattle 
of their arms in performing their salute, excited the 
attention of the whole party. 

Theodore looked up, recognised the Baron, and, in 
his agitation, forgetting every circumstance of time 
and place, greeted him as if they had parted only the 
day before. 

“ Gerard \” he cried ; “ 0 come to my help I She 
is dying, and they will not let me take her out of this 
horrible dungeon.” 

One glance at Marie was all He Eaynal could bear. 
To see her in such a place, on such a miserable bed— 
pale, motionless—^her hair dishevelled—her dress dis¬ 
ordered by the rude handling of the soldiers—her 
tender ankles bruised with the bard cords which bound 
them,—he could not look upon it, could not think of 
it, and preserve his composure. Action—^prompt, vigo¬ 
rous action—was his only safety. Embracing Theo¬ 
dore with the warmth due to their early friendship, he 
assured him that all should be arranged as he wished, 



56 


The Huguenot Family. 


and gave immediate orders to the men around to sum¬ 
mon the lady’s own attendants, and have her carried 
wherever the Count should desire. 

He then turned to Gaspar, and somewhat sternly 
demanded the meaning of all he saw. The man 
answered sullenly, vexed at the appearance and inter¬ 
ference of his superior. But the priest, in his con¬ 
ciliatory manner, gave a softened narration of the 
whole. 

“ The good sergeant,” he said, “ had felt a deep 
interest in the Count and his family; and, anxious for 
their eternal good, and zealous for the glory of Holy 
Mother Church, had used every means to bring them 
to a knowledge of their errors. A little gentle con¬ 
straint had been used ; but he was glad to say it had 
been completely successful, as the Count de Blancard 
was now an avowed professor of their holy religion.” 

A smile of bitter scorn curled the Baron’s lip, which 
changed into an expression of the fiercest indignation, 
as he heard in what the gentle constraint had con¬ 
sisted; but he restrained all open manifestation of 
either anger or -contempt, and merely remarked a 
little sarcastically, “ That he was sure ‘ Holy Mother 
Church’ would duly appreciate and commend the zeal 
her children had shewn in her cause.” 

And the king also, mon Capitaine,” said the 
sergeant. ‘‘ The king earnestly desires the conversion 
of every soul in his kingdom.” 

“ A wise and holy desire of a most wise and holy 
king,” De Eaynal answered. “ I shall take care that 
his Majesty be duly informed of your success in this 
matter; but now that it is accomplished, the sooner 
we leave this place the better. In a time of sickness 



The Deliverer, 


57 


and distress, I cannot suffer you to remain to incom¬ 
mode the family. I shall provide you quarters at my 
own expense for the rest of the time you should have 
remained here.’^ 

“ But the lady is still an obstinate heretic,” Gaspar 
urged, doggedly. 

“ The lady, sirrah 1” was the stern answer, “ is in 
no condition to listen to arguments of any kind,'’ with 
a contemptuous emphasis on the words, which the 
monk, at least, well understood. “ And, at any rate, 
she is one whose friends and relations are too high in 
power and influence to render the position of her per¬ 
secutors either desirable or safe. You will see that 
the men make ready to march immediately." 

Gaspar could only obey in sullen silence. The 
officer turned to Father Joseph. 

May I ask whom I have the honour to address 
he asked, courteously. 

“ I am called Father Joseph, and am the unworthy 
superior of the neighbouring monastery of Lamont," 
was his meek answer. 

“ Like most of our reverend fathers, you have, I 
presume, a knowledge of medicine ? Might I request, 
as a personal favour to myself, that you would see if 
the lady’s attendants know what remedies to use for 
her indisposition ? And might I further ask you to let 
me know her state, ere I leave the place 

Father Joseph readily acquiesced, well pleased to 
conciliate the favour of the Count, by assisting in the 
recovery of his wife. And while he was busy at the 
side of the poor sufferer, the Baron, in a fever of ex¬ 
citement and anxiety, paced up and down the ante- 

E 




58 


The Huguenot Family. 


room, listening to every sound, and by turns yielding 
to despair and to sanguine hope for the result. 

After about twenty minutes Father Joseph re-ap¬ 
peared, and reported that consciousness and strength 
seemed about to return, and that he had withdrawn, 
lest his presence might excite or bewilder the patient, 
directing the attendants to recall him should it be 
necessary. 

They waited together for a few minutes to see if 
such necessity might arise, and soon heard her voice, 
in weak trembling accents, speaking to her husband. 
Gerard had not heard it for more than ten years. It 
thrilled to his very heart; and, afraid his emotion might 
overmaster him, he bade the monk a hasty farewell, 
joined his troop, and rode off at their head* 





CHAPTER 7. 


EUGENE. 

ND where was Eugene all this time ? We did 
not see him with his sisters, watching for 
their mother^s recovery from her fainting fit; 
and when consciousness returned the second 
time, and Marie looked round upon her chil¬ 
dren, still Eugene was absent. No one could 
answer her anxious questions regarding him. 
But we who are privileged to go everywhere, and to 
know everything, shall find out an answer for our¬ 
selves. 

On that first day, when the children were taken 
from their parents, the little girls and their bonne were 
left in comparative freedom,—the only restriction laid 
upon them being, that they should not go near the 
room where the Count and Countess were confined, 
and should not leave the house. But Eugene was 
separated from them, and conveyed by two soldiers 
across the court-yard, through the ruins of the old 
chateau, to a small turret at the farther end, and up a 
dark winding staircase, to a room near the top, where 
they found the blacksmith of the hamlet employed in re¬ 
pairing the lock of the door, which had been long unused. 
The bolt was gone, but the staple remained in tbe wall, 
and the man was fitting into it a heavy bar of wood. 



60 


The Huguenot Family, 


He looked up at Eugene as the men brought him to 
the door. He was a Catholic, and had always hated 
his Protestant landlord. 

“ Ha, ha!” he said, with a malicious smile; “ so 
this is the bird for my cage—is it? But you have 
brought him too soon, my friends; the cage is hardly 
ready yet.” 

“ The little bird, as you call him, dared to sing 
some of his damnable Huguenot songs in the very 
presence of the holy Father; so we were forced to carry 
him off at once, without waiting to know whether you 
were ready or not,” answered one of the men, giving 
Eugene a shake as he spoke. 

“ Ah I well, he can sing here as long as he likes, 
and no one be a bit the worse,” rejoined the smith. 
“ Ho one to hear your music here, my gay bird, unless 
it be Loup-garou,* or the Letiche of that poor baby your 
heretic parents allowed to go to hell last spring for 
want of proper baptism.” 

Come, come, friends,” interposed the other soldier, 
“ it is cruel and cowardly to strike an unarmed man. 
Kemember the poor babe cannot defend himself: it is 
a shame on your manhood to tease him. Never mind, 
my fine fellow,” clapping him on the back, “ Loup- 
garou and Letiche shall never come near you, if you 
only say an Ave or two every now and then.” 

“ Say an Ave /” cried his comrade, laughing; “ why, 
that is just what he cannot do. Come, try,-‘little 
heretic; let us hear how you could manage to get 
through one.” 

“ I cannot; and if I could, I would not;—and our 

* Loup,garou means " were-wolf,” and Letiche, “ the ghost of an xmbap^ 
tize.d child." 



Eugene. 


61 


Marie was baptized, she has no letiche,’^ Eugene said, 
boldly, his eyes flashing fire on his tormentors. 

“ Hear how the bold cock crows. Ah ! well, friend, 
here is your cage ready for you now. In you go; and 
we shall see if all this bravery hold out a day and 
night alone here,”—and as he spoke he thrust him into 
the room, and barred it on him. 

It was a dreary, lonesome place, and so poor Eugene 
felt it, bold and high-spirited as he was. He was but 
nine years old, and by no means free from the super¬ 
stitious terrors of his time. In broad daylight, and 
with the bright sunshine streaming in at the little 
window, there was little fear of a visit from any spirit, 
good or bad. But, if even then his heart beat quick at 
the thoughts of them, what would it be in the dark 
night, with that dismal staircase, and the long dreary 
labyrinths of ruins between him and any human being I 
He listened to the receding footsteps of his guards and 
the smith, and fancied how fearful it would be to 
listen thus in the silence and darkness of night, and to 
know that any sound that might arise must be some¬ 
thing mysterious—something which it would chill his 
very heart to hear. 

But he would not sufl^r such thoughts to frighten 
him ; and he tossed back his head, and proudly dashed 
the tears from his eyes, He would think of something 
else, and forget all about Loup-garou and Letiche. 

Easily resolved, poor Eugene ! But what is there in 
this empty room to think about ? Look round j there 
are only four bare walls, with grotesque carving round 
the top, too far up for you to see distinctly; an uneven 
dirty floor, with a jar of water, and a small loaf of 
bread standing in the middle; a wide, desolate-looking 



62 


The Huguenot Family. 


fireplace, without a grate, and a small square window 
without casement. 

But the window, if it could he reached, might afford 
some amusement, some distraction to his gloomy 
thoughts. By its means he might look out upon grass, 
and trees, and flowers, ay, even upon living and moving 
creatures. There was comfort in the very thought, and 
he made a vehement spring, hoping to catch by the 
ledge, and swing himself up, when he could sit easily 
and comfortably in the recess formed by the thick walls. 
But, alas! it was too high ; he was too short. Again 
and again he tried, taking as long runs as the small 
room would admit, and straining every nerve to attain 
his end, but in vain ; he only hurt himself by frequent 
falls, exhausted his strength in useless efforts, and at 
last, worn out, he gave it up, sat down on the ground, 
and yielded to a hearty fit of crying. This relieved 
him, he did not understand how or why, but as the fit 
passed off, much of his terror and dismay passed off 
with it. As his sobs became more gentle, his tears less 
copious, his heart felt lighter, his thoughts turned to 
other and more happy things. He began to recall the 
scene of the past night—^his mother’s peace, and even 
happiness in the midst of danger and sorrow—her as¬ 
sured confidence that the Lord watched over, and cared 
for them all,—the sweet words from God’s own book, 
with which she had comforted her children, and brought 
back sunshine to their troubled fearful hearts. Then 
he thought of his own peculiar feelings, the expectation 
of instant death, with the loaded pistol pressing against 
his temple, the subsequent horror of knowing that, had 
he died then, he could not have gone to heaven—the 
glorious conviction which had for the first time become 



Eugene, 


63 


real and true to him, that Christ was the Saviour of 
sinners—and the rapturous happiness of feeling that his 
own sins were indeed all washed out in that dear Sa¬ 
viour’s blood, he, sinful as he was, accepted of God for 
that dear Saviour’s sake—brighter and fuller than ever 
rose that joy now.' 

‘‘ God my father and friend,” he cried aloud, “ Christ 
my shepherd ! oh, surely I shall never want. He carries 
the lambs in His bosom: there I am quite safe, and so 
happy, so very happy!” 

Then he remembered how often he had heard all 
these precious truths before, and how little he had ever 
cared for them, or even thought about them. 

“ God knew how careless and forgetful I should be, 
even when He sent His own Son to die for me,” he 
thought, “ and Christ knew, all the time He was bear¬ 
ing the punishment of my sins, what a careless, sinful 
boy I should be, and yet they loved me, and did all 
this for me. And after I had gone on forgetting God, 
and wishing to forget Him as long as ever I could,—the 
very first moment I turned to seek after Him, He heard 
me, and came to me at the very beginning of my sor¬ 
row, to stay with me and to comfort me. 0 God, what 
great love Thou hast shewn to me,—that the Lord of 
heaven and earth should come down into my prison, 
and take care of, and comfort me, a poor sinful boy I” 
And in the fulness of his heart he began to sing one of 
the sweet simple Huguenot hymns he had often sung 
with his father, mother, and sisters. He had liked to 
sing these hymns, liked the music, liked to join his 
voice to theirs. But never before had his whole heart 
rejoiced in the song as now. Never before had the 
words been to him real and living truths, his own words 



64 


The Huguenot Family. 


in which he poured forth the joy and gratitude of his 
full heart to God himself, to the God of love and good¬ 
ness, who had shewn to him the exceeding riches of 
His kindness in Christ Jesus. Louder and more joyous 
rose the strain, till it reached the ears of the soldiers, 
busy about their horses in the stable-yard below. They 
listened to him astonished, and not unmoved to hear so 
young a child praising God in so trying a situation. 

When his voice grew tired, he began again to look 
around for some object of amusement, and this time 
not quite in vain. The window, whose height had so 
tantalized him, afforded him at least a little comfort and 
interest. By it the soft summer wind blew in, bringing 
with it sweet fragrance and pleasant sounds. The sun 
shone cheerily on the opposite wall—the shadows of the 
creeping plants entwined round the opening flickered 
in the broad line of light, and gave him some amuse¬ 
ment in tracing resemblances to their fantastic forms. 
How and then, too, the shadow of a bird passed quickly 
across, and he took an interest in guessing what bird 
it was, and following it in fancy to the wood, seeing its 
nest high up in some old tree, and picturing the mother 
and little ones watching for the father’s return, and 
welcoming him with joyful song, or chirping, and with 
restless fluttering wings. 

Such visions brought up recollections of many happy 
hours spent in these woods, and with something of his 
father’s power of abstraction and imagination, the little 
fellow lived them over again. One day in particular 
recurred to his mind, when, worn out with his own wild 
play, he had gone to lie down beside his father on the 
bank of the river, under the shade of a flne chestnut. 
Eugene saw again the picturesque branches of the old 



Eugene. 


65 


tree, watclied again tlie bright glancing of light on the 
water, heard again the pleasant rippling sound. As 
they lay there, his father had given him one of his 
vivid realizing pictures of Bible stories. It was of 
Hagar and Ishmael he had spoken ; and brightly and 
freshly came back to the boy's mind all the scenes then 
so clearly presented to it. The desolate mother going 
forth with her child, the lad faint with thirst lying 
down to die, the bright angel coming to the mother in 
her deep despair, the cool bubbling fountain beside the 
bush, and the intense delight with which mother and 
son would hear its soft murmur, and catch the first sight 
of its glancing waters. 

And as thus he recollected and mused, the wearied 
boy fell asleep, sitting where he was on the hard floor, 
leaning against the wall. 

He slept long, but awoke with a^ violent start; and 
bewildered, frightened, stiff and sore from the hardness 
of his bed and the constraint of his posture, his first 
impulse was to call aloud for his mother. Oh 1 how 
dreary was the thought that no one would hear his call. 
That he might be in danger, sick, dying, and that he 
must bear it all alone. That dear mother, who would 
have given her life for his, could not hear him, could 
not help him, could not even know of his situation. As 
the words “ Mamma, mamma” passed his lips, he awoke 
to a full sense of his desolation, and covering his face 
with his hands, he wept again long and bitterly. 

When he recovered himself, and began again to re¬ 
collect the God and Saviour in whose arms he lay, and 
whose watchfal love and care never slumbered nor 
slept, it was a great comfort to pour out all the dreary 
feelings of his heart into that Saviour’s ear, and to pray 



66 


The Huguenot Family. 


to Him for help and comfort for all the dear ones of 
whose fate or circumstances he was quite ignorant. 
Again, the sweet consciousness of his Father’s loving¬ 
kindness and presence revived and cheered his droop¬ 
ing spirits. 

The sun had gone round from his window, hut he 
rose and walked up and down the room, and at each 
turn that brought him in that direction, he could look 
up at the bright sky, and watch, as the leaves of the 
creepers now caught and now lost the yellow rays of 
sunlight. The appetite of childhood was now in its 
way a relief to him. He ate his loaf of bread and 
drank some of the water with a sense of refreshment, 
and the very act of doing so was a little employment, 
a slight break, at least, upon the wearisome monotony 
of his day. 

Towards evening he heard the sound of footsteps on 
the stair. Harsh as the soldiers had shewn themselves, 
even the presence of one of them would be almost a 
relief, and he watched a little anxiously to hear if the 
steps were going to stop at his door. They did stop, 
the bolt was withdrawn, a soldier came in with another 
jar of water, and looking up at him, Eugene saw to his 
joy that it was the same man who had spoken kindly 
to him in the morning. 

The soldier shut the door, and setting his back 
against it, stood looking down upon Eugene with in¬ 
terest and compassion. 

“ Well, my child,” he said kindly, “ how do you get 
on up here by yourself? Have you been very sorrowful 
and much afraid of Letiche ?” 

“No, I have not been afraid,” Eugene began proudly; 
then added ingenuously, “ I was at first, but I asked 



Eugene. 


67 


God to take care of me, and I know He will not allow 
bad spirits to hurt me. As for good ones, they will not 
wish to do so.’^ 

“ Well, you are a brave boy,’’ answered the other, 
“ and I like you for it. I offered to bring you np the 
water, that I might give you a word or two of advice. 
Father Joseph will be up soon to preach to you—mind 
my words. Do what he bids you, and make the sign 
of the cross, like this,” suiting the action to the words, 

when he asks you.” 

“ Why, what good can it do me ?” Eugene asked. 

The soldier looked a little puzzled. He was wholly 
ignorant even of the doctrines he professed, and had no 
clear idea of what the sign meant. 

“ What good ? Why, it will at least open the doors 
of your prison, and set you free,” he said at last, and 
for the matter of that, what harm can it do ?” 

“ That I do not know, for I do not know what it 
means,” was the boy’s prompt answer; “ but this I do 
know, my own papa and mamma love me with all their 
hearts, and yet they would have suffered your cruel 
man to kill me, rather than make that sign; and they 
know what it means, though I do not.” 

“ I don’t think they know what they are about,” 
the man cried with vehemence, “ to murder them¬ 
selves and their children for a mere nothing, a mere 
bagatelle.” 

“If it be a mere nothing, why do you treat us so 
cruelly on account of it ?” Eugene asked boldly. 

“ Cruelly indeed, my poor child ; but do not say that 
I do it. I hate the whole business from my soul. It 
breaks my heart, it makes my blood boil, to see that 
sweet lady suffer as she does.” 



68 


The Huguenot Family. 


“ How does she suffer? What are they doing to her?'' 
Eugene asked breathlessly. 

The man was unwilling to answer, but the boy 
pressed him so vehemently that he could not refuse, 
and with tears of pity he told what was passing at the 
chateau. 

Eugene listened with horror. He had seen the be¬ 
ginning of the trial, had seen his father and mother 
bound, and the baby taken from them. But in all the 
noise and tumult of the moment, he had not heard 
distinctly what Gaspar had threatened, and had not 
understood even what he did hear. How that he 
realized the fearful truth, that they were murdering his 
darling baby-brother, and that by the slow and terrible 
death of starvation, his grief and consternation passed 
all bounds. He threw himself on the ground, tore his 
hair, beat his breast and forehead with his clenched 
hands, and refused to listen to comfort. 

The soldier was deeply moved. Braving the dis¬ 
pleasure of his superiors, he waited patiently until the 
passion of grief had exhausted itself. And when 
Eugene, worn out with the violence of his own emo¬ 
tions, grew more calm from mere fatigue, he took him 
in his arms, and soothed and caressed him as a mother 
might have done. 

“ I must leave you now, my poor child,’^ he said at 
last, when Eugene’s sobs had nearly ceased. “ But I 
am appointed to watch the horses in the stable to-night, 
and I shall contrive to be with you as much of it as I 
can. My comrades will not betray me, for your hymns 
this forenoon brought tears into many an eye.” 

Eugene thanked him warmly, and emboldened by 
his kindness, asked him, as the greatest favour he could 



Eugene. 


69 


grant, to lift him np to the window, that he might sit 
there, and look again, as he said, “ upon God's beau¬ 
tiful grass and trees." 

The man complied with his request, and in the de¬ 
light of seeing once again the full light, the free coun¬ 
try, and all the sights his heart had been longing for, 
Eugene forgot his regret at losing this kind friend's 
companionship. 

The window was too high up to admit of his seeing 
the familiar terraces and flower-beds round the house. 
But the more distant prospect with the sunset light on 
it, was sufiScient happiness after a day spent in look¬ 
ing at four bare walls. The ground in front of the 
chateau sloped rapidly down to the river, and rose 
again, with equal steepness, on the other side. It 
was this opposite bank, beautifully wooded, upon which 
Eugene looked. Either nature or art had formed some 
fine glades running up into the wood, and these were 
shown off to particular advantage in that light with the 
long rays of the setting sun lying on the soft green 
grass. At the end of one of these glades was a small 
summer house. Knowing where to look for it, the 
boy could distinguish its white roof gleaming through 
the trees, and tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, as 
he recalled the many happy fetes he had enjoyed in 
that spot, with his father, mother, and sisters. 

He was so absorbed in recollections that he did not 
hear Father Joseph come up stairs, and into the room. 
The priest looked round, and not seeing his prisoner, 
fancied the guard had suffered him to escape, either 
through negligence or pity. 

“ The scoundrel," he said aloud, “ but he shall 
suffer for this, I can tell him. He shall be punished." 



70 


The Huguenot Family. 

Eugene heard, and fancying it was the indulgence 
of sitting in the window which had aroused the priest’s 
wrath, he jumped lightly down, saying eagerly— 

‘‘ Do not he angry with that kind man. It was my 
fault. I hegged so hard that he would lift me up.” 

“Oh, you are there, are you?” Father Joseph 
answered, much relieved. “ Well, come here, I have 
much to say to you,” and he looked round for a seat, 
that he might begin his admonitions with due comfort 
and dignity. 

Alas! poor Father Joseph, it was a hard case. It 
might he all very well that the heretic hoy should he 
left a whole day without even a stool whereon to rest 
his wearied limbs. But that a dignitary of the holy 
Church, used to every comfort and luxury, should 
he exposed to such privation, was intolerable. It had 
the effect of shortening the scene, and Eugene’s 
temptation. The priest could not stand to argue or 
reason. He briefly and decidedly explained to the 
child what was required of him, and commanded obe¬ 
dience on pain of being sent to the monastery of Lament, 
and shut up there for life, or until a proper sense of 
duty had been taught him. 

Eugene did not hesitate. True, he did not clearly 
understand what signing the cross, or repeating an Ave, 
meant. But that they were sinful he was thoroughly 
convinced, otherwise his father and mother would never 
have refused compliance, when their refusal involved 
the life of hinaself and the little Theodore. 

“ I cannot sin against God,” was the only answer he 
gave to the priest’s commands and menaces. 

Father Joseph opened the door, and called up the 
soldiers, who were in waiting. To them he gave the 



EugHe. 


71 


"boy, -witli orders to convey him to the monastery, and 
give him in charge to one of the brethren whom he 
named. 

Eugene neither struggled nor remonstrated. He 
went quietly away with his guards, and all through the 
long and somewhat fatiguing walk, he strengthened 
and comforted his heart with the thought, that the 
Lord Jesus walked by his side, and knew exactly how 
much sorrow, fear, and weariedness he suffered. 

The priest stood looking after the little party, until 
they were out of sight, with an expression of satisfac¬ 
tion and self-congratulation, and as he walked slowly 
hack to the chMeau, he looked complacently round 
upon the fine domain, the heir to which was now in 
his own possession. 

Not quite a twelvemonth had elapsed since the 
higher powers in the Church had seen fit, for the honour 
of their religion, to send Father Joseph to the monas¬ 
tery of Lamont, which was becoming infamous through 
the laxity of morals and of discipline. Under such cir¬ 
cumstances he had found ample employment in the 
internal government of his own little kingdom. And 
it was only very lately that he had had leisure to direct 
his attention to the state of matters in the neighbour¬ 
hood. From the first moment of his doing so, however, 
it had been a sore thorn in his side, to think that Blan- 
card with its fine woods, luxuriant pastures, and fruitful 
vineyards, should be in possession of a heretic. His 
only comfort was in looking forward to the fast advan¬ 
cing wave of persecution, as the surest means of reme¬ 
dying this sore evil. While awaiting its approach, 
he busied himself in endeavouring to gain an insight 
into the characters, habits, and circumstances of the 



72 


The Huguenot Family, 


Count and his lady, and employed many ingenious de¬ 
vices to make their personal acquaintance. In both 
objects he was foiled. The life of complete retirement 
in which they lived, precluded all intimacy with their 
Catholic neighbours, none of whom were qualihed to 
give the monk the information he desired. And his 
more direct efforts to get an introduction to the chateau 
were evaded courteously but decidedly by its master. 
Father Joseph was, however, a man of no ordinary 
ability and penetration. Although he had hardly ever 
seen either Theodore or Marie before the night he ac¬ 
companied Caspar to Blancard, and had never spoken to 
them, he yet easily read their characters in that first 
interview. As we have seen, he calculated with great 
nicety the chances of success with one and the other. 
And judging that the Count’s conversion would, at the 
best, be merely formal, and the influence of the Church 
over him merely that of fear, he had at an early period 
of the work decided, that to gain possession of the heir 
would be the best mode of serving the interest of the 
Church in general, and the monastery of Lamont in par¬ 
ticular. It was for this purpose that he had given 
directions for Eugene’s imprisonment, trusting to the 
effect of solitude and fear, in breaking the boy’s spirit, 
and making him pliable to his will. The smallest sign 
of conformity to the Catholic religion would have suf¬ 
ficed for the monk’s purpose. And although foiled in 
his first attempt to get even such a sign, he by no 
means abandoned his scheme. 

Nor, indeed, had he reason so to abandon it. The 
scheme was by no means impracticable. In those days 
it was a thing of frequent occurrence to take children 
from their Huguenot parents, and imprison them in 



Eugene, 


73 


religious houses, until they were old enough or well 
enough instructed to make an open and decided pro¬ 
fession of the Catholic faith. In the event of both the 
Count and Countess continuing firm to their principles, 
imprisonment, the galleys, or death would he their 
probable portion. And, in that event. Father Joseph 
knew he could easily establish a right to the guardian¬ 
ship of the young heir. If, on the other hand, one or 
both apostatized, it might still be easy to convince the 
authorities, that it would be expedient to retain the 
boy as a hostage for his parents’ adherence to their new 
profession, and in order that he might receive a train¬ 
ing better fitted to make him a zealous devoted servant 
to the Church than any they were likely to give him. 

Nor was he disappointed. As soon as Theodore 
ascertained where his boy was, he employed every 
means to regain possession of him. He made use of 
every form of expostulation, entreaty, and menace to 
Father Joseph j sued his claim to the guardianship of 
his own child in the proper courts of law, and finally 
petitioned the king to interfere and see that justice was 
done him. But in vain. The prize was too great to 
be readily given up by the monk. Courts of law were, 
in those days, under ecclesiastical domination, and from 
the Court he received a significant hint, that consider¬ 
ing the obstinacy the Countess had shewn in her ad¬ 
herence to heresy, it was safest for himself not to attract 
too much attention to the state of his household, and 
that the king, in his paternal regard for the best inter¬ 
ests of all his subjects, thought it very advisable that the 
boy should be consigned to the care of those who could 
give him more wholesome instruction than in the pre¬ 
sent state of matters could be hoped for at his owa 

F 



74 


The Huguenot Family. 


home. Thus intimidated by the covert threat of a 
greater evil in being deprived of his wife, Theodore 
saw himself obliged to submit. And the Baron de 
Eaynal, who had exerted himself to the utmost, to 
guard Marie from all molestation, was also convinced 
that it would be dangerous to urge the matter farther. 

In the meantime, how was the child treated in the 
monastery ? After the first weeks, upon the whole, not 
unkindly. He had found companions in his imprison¬ 
ment. Other children of various ages, torn, like him¬ 
self, from Huguenot homes, were at the monastery when 
he arrived, and the number was constantly increased. 
Of these, the greater part were timidly submissive to 
the dictates of their new masters. Many, indeed, were 
too young and ignorant to think of resistance, to under¬ 
stand why they should resist. But there were a few 
who, like Eugene, withstood bravely all the persuasions, 
bribes, threats, and harshness, used to induce them to 
comply with what they knew to be wrong. Some of 
the things required of them, such as worshipping images 
and pictures, and praying to saints, they knew from 
the Bible to be sinful, and boldly declared their belief 
on the subject. And in regard to others, which they 
did not understand, they refused obedience lest they 
might be wrong, and on the ground that their parents 
had forbidden them to use such ceremonies. 

At first great severity, even cruelty, was practised, to 
shake the firmness of the young martyrs, and some gave 
way under it, although Eugene did not. He was con¬ 
fined for weeks in a small cell, with no amusement 
except such as he could find in the missals, breviary, 
and lives of the saints, placed there for his edification. 
He was for a short time shut up in the dismal dungeon 



Eugene, 


75 


of the monastery. Severe floggings, cruel confinement 
in painful positions, were all trie(l. But though such 
measures weakened his strength, and paled his cheek, 
they could not shake his constancy, a constancy which 
the Lord Himself had given, which the Lord Himself 
upheld. And as the child’s death was by no means 
desired. Father Joseph relaxed in his severity, so soon 
as he saw his health seriously affected ; and rendered 
more secure in his possession of him, by the interest the 
higher authorities took in his claim, he was contented to 
proceed in the work of conversion more moderately, and 
to trust to the effect of time to eradicate the impression 
his parents’ instructions had made upon the boy’s mind. 

Poor fellow! he felt very bitterly the being shut out 
from all intercourse with those he loved, and who loved 
him. But he was in very truth carried like a lamb in 
his Saviour’s arms, and richly did the Lord make up 
to him for all the deprivations he suffered. He had no 
earthly friend to instruct and guide him. But the 
Lord, the Prophet of His people, took that office upon 
Himself, recalling to the child’s mind all the instruc¬ 
tions he had received, all the passages of Scripture he 
had heard or learned in happier days, causing him to 
see their truth, to feel their value, and ever making to 
him new and precious revelations of Himself, and of 
all His glorious attributes. Eugene had now no tender 
mother to care for his happiness, to take part in his 
joys and sorrows. But the Lord taught him to rest 
trustingly on His love and tender care, to pour out 
his whole heart to Him, to tell Him every thought and 
feeling, every sorrow, wish, or fear, and caused him to 
hear His voice speaking to him in words of comfort and 
encouragement. 



76 The Huguenot Family, 

The monotony of his present life was very unsuitable 
to a boy of his spirit and energy. But here, too, the 
Lord in His loving-kindness provided many alleviations. 
Eugene had a sweet voice and a correct ear. The 
monks, taking pride and pleasure in the excellency of 
their choir, were careful to give him the instructions 
necessary to fit him for taking part in it; and the 
boy’s enthusiastic love of music made his daily singing 
lesson a real pleasure to him. A similar taste for draw¬ 
ing enabled him to get pleasantly through another' 
daily task, that of copying the old illuminated manu¬ 
scripts, of which the monastery of Lamont had a great 
store. Copies of these manuscripts sold for a high 
price to the antiquarians of the day. The monks were 
constantly employed in making them. And so soon as 
Eugene’s talent was discovered, he was trusted to 
assist in the more delicate and interesting parts of the 
work, and freed from the more tiresome and mechanical 
copying of the mere letters. So useful did he prove in 
this department, that there might have, been a danger of 
his being employed upon it to such an extent as to injure 
his health and spirits, had not his life been of too much 
value to the monastery to permit the judicious superior 
to neglect a due care of both. And the enforced labour 
in the garden, dictated by this care, was a great amuse¬ 
ment as well as benefit to the child. The long hours in 
the chapel—listening to prayers, and witnessing cere¬ 
monies he did not understand—were wearisome enough. 
But even there Eugene often enjoyed much happiness, 
praying to God in his heart, and enjoying precious 
communion with Him. He got one of the monks to 
translate for him the Latin words of the various chants, 
requiems, &c., he was required to join in. Those which 



Eugene. 


77 


were merely passages of Scripture he sang with great 
heartiness, and in others which he thought wrong, such 
as addresses to the Virgin or saints, he contrived to sing 
some of his old well-known hymns without being found 
out. At such times, enjoying the fine music with his 
whole heart, and uniting with it fervent praise to the God 
who was so good and loving to him, he would he ex¬ 
cited to perfect rapture, his face would glow, his eyes 
light up, his voice rise and swell in the irrepressible 
joy of his spirit, and Father Joseph observing him 
would fancy that his wishes were on the point of being 
fulfilled, that through music and all its charms, such a 
child might be easily won. Poor Father Joseph ! even 
your shrewdness was at fault here. Never was Eugene 
farther from yielding obedience to you, than after his 
whole soul had been strengthened by such exercises as 
these. 

But we must leave Eugene for the present. Only 
let me say one word to my readers before we do so. 
Perhaps some of you may think that an anxious mother 
like Marie ought to have instructed her boy more per¬ 
fectly in the forms of his own and the Catholic religion, 
ought to have taken care that he should, at least, un¬ 
derstand what was wrong in those things that might be 
required of him. But you must remember that in those 
days children’s intellects were far less cultivated than 
they are now, that Eugene had been a very thoughtless 
boy, far fonder of play than of lessons, and that his 
mother had found it expedient to be careful not to 
exact too much attention from him, not to weary him 
with instructions of whose value he had no idea. In 
such circumstances did she not do wisely to take the 
time and attention he was willing to bestow for matters 



78 


The Huguenot Family. 


of more vital importance than any mere forms ? Her 
beautiful and heart-touching lessons about the Saviour’s 
love had made an impression even on the careless boy’s 
heart, and when God gave him His Holy Spirit to 
awaken him to seek after a personal interest in that 
Saviour, all these lessons came back in freshness and 
strength, and were his best safeguards against compli¬ 
ance with anything which could rob that Saviour of 
the glory of His perfect salvation, or cast dishonour 
upon His love and willingness to save. So that he evei 
looked with perfect abhorrence upon the doctrine of th , 
merits of saints, or prayers for their or the Virgin’s in¬ 
tercession, and upon all parallel errors. 





CHAPTER VI. 


KEMOESE. 

ORE than a year lias jpassed ; and we find 
Theodore and Marie in the little cabinet 
where we saw them first. But how changed 
both are since then! 

Look at Marie as she sits there close 
under the window, bending over her 
tapestry frame. Can you recognise the 
eager, impulsive, yet clinging, dependent 
creature she was four years ago ? A girl she was then 
in heart and mind, if not in years. A woman, a grave, 
self-possessed, self-relying woman she is now. There 
is great calmness in that smooth brow and quiet eye. 
But it is the calmness of one who has passed through 
the storm, and has learned by experience the strength 
and stability of the anchor to which she trusts ; not the 
calmness that has never feared, because it has never 
known sorrow. 

The Baron de Eaynal’s zeal in Marie’s cause aroused 
other friends to exert themselves likewise, and their 
combined influence sufficed to procure her a certain 
measure of freedom and peace. But it was not such 
freedom as you and I, dear readers, are blessed with, in 
our happy free country, and happy free times. Free 
she was to remain in her husband’s home, to sit by his 
side, but with the consciousness that the import of their 




80 


The Huguenot Family, 


most private and confidential conversations might be 
extorted from Theodore in confession, and made use of 
for her ruin. Free to keep her children with her, 
knowing that at any time her counsels or instructions 
to them might be overheard, and might be the cause of 
driving her to exile, prison, or death. Free to rule as 
a puppet over a household, hired by her own money to 
act as spies upon her every look, word, or action. But 
freedom from the intrusion of Father Joseph and his 
emissaries at all hours, into every room of the house, she 
did not enjoy. Nor freedom to read God’s Word when 
and where she pleased. She had seen the whole house 
searched for Bibles, had seen them collected and burnt 
before herself, her husband, and children. And the 
only copy she now possessed was a small one of the 
Old Testament, which she had concealed about her own 
person at the risk of her life, and into which she dared 
not look even in her own chamber without many pre¬ 
cautions to guard against surprise. Nor freedom to 
worship God as her conscience dictated. That house 
was now a mass of ruins where she had so often with 
her husband enjoyed hearing the preaching of God’s 
truth, and joined in prayer and praise with his people ; 
and the aged pastor whom they so tenderly loved, 
was now hiding for his life amid the dens and caves of 
the earth. Her soul’s thirst for the public ordinances 
of God could only be satisfied by her stealing out alone 
in the darkness of night, and with beating heart and 
hasty foot, finding her way to the lonely spot on the 
verge of the forest, or on the face of the hill, where 
others of God’s faithful ones met to cheer and 
strengthen their own and each other’s hearts by mu¬ 
tual exhortation and prayer. Thus restrained, thus 



Remorse, 


81 


watched, we can well understand how it is that still¬ 
ness and reserve are now the distinguishing charac¬ 
teristics of her manner, once so open, animated, and 
demonstrative. 

The change in Theodore is still more striking. He 
has withdrawn so much into the shade that you can 
scarcely see the expression of his countenance; but 
every line of his figure as he sits there drooping, listless, 
despairing, tells how greatly he is changed from the 
enthusiastic dreamer, thirsting for martyrdom, rejoicing 
in the prospect of heaven’s glory, whom we saw in the 
same room four years ago. 

Poor Theodore! I have no doubt that you have de¬ 
spised him heartily for his weakness in the • hour of 
trial; but could you now see into his heart, every 
harsher feeling would be swallowed up in pity. Like 
many in similar circumstances, he had believed that a 
merely nominal profession of the Catholic faith was all 
that was required of him. That having yielded obe¬ 
dience to the first demands of his persecutors, nothing 
more would be asked for ; but that when the troops had 
fairly left the neighbourhood, he should be allowed to 
pursue his own path in peace. Very different from such 
expectation was the reality. No detail of his life, pri¬ 
vate or domestic, was suffered to escape the interference 
of Father Joseph. 

All his old servants, with the exception of two, were 
dismissed, and their places filled with others, completely 
under the influence, and devoted to the interest, of the 
Catholic Church. The two exceptions were the chil¬ 
dren’s bonne Marguerite, whose weakness and timidity 
rendered her at least harmless in Father Joseph’s eyes, 
and Bernard, an old confidential servant, who had served 



82 


The Huguenot Family. 


the family of Blancard since he was ten years old, had 
nursed the former Count in his last illness, accompanied 
his young master to Beauchardis, and never quitted him 
for a day since. He was a professed Protestant, hut in 
spite of good instructions and earnest exhortations from 
both his masters, he was thoroughly indifferent to reli¬ 
gion. Devoted, unselfish attachment to his master took 
with him the place of every higher feeling or principle. 
This same devotion, and a certain fearlessness of spirit, 
and straightforward honesty of purpose, made him an 
object of dislike to the wily priest. But his indifferent- 
ism was all in his favour, and his master was so deter¬ 
mined in his refusal to part with him, that Father 
Joseph had in the end yielded the point, taking good 
care to make this concession the reason for urging 
obedience to many a tyrannical demand. 

The next thing required of the Count was the giving 
up of all the Bibles his house contained, that they 
might be destroyed in Father Joseph's presence. His 
resistance to this was long and obstinate ; but he had 
put himself into the hands of those who would shew no 
mercy. In once professing the Catholic faith, he had 
placed himself in a much more dangerous position than 
that he had before occupied. His spiritual guides 
scrupled not to threaten him with the utmost vengeance 
of the law against apostates; and he had no strength 
to brave that vengeance, now that he had voluntarily 
withdrawn himself from the honourable post of a soldier 
of the Lord, fighting under His banner, upheld by His 
might, protected by His shield, comforted by the con¬ 
sciousness of His presence, guidance, and love. Looking 
upon himself as having sinned beyond all hope of par¬ 
don, as shut out for ever from the light of God's coun- 



Remorse. 


83 


tenance, lie yielded sullenly to what was demanded of 
him, and gave himself up to the despair of feeling that 
nothing he did or left undone, could now he of the least 
consequence. 

Marie had watched the growth of this despair with 
intense pain, and had felt the utmost anxiety to help 
him to resist its influence; but her opportunities of 
speaking to him were few and interrupted, and such as 
they were, he seemed anxious to prevent her from using 
them for any such purpose. He never confided to her 
the state of his thoughts or feelings, and after that first 
day when he had told her of his apostasy, he had care¬ 
fully avoided every allusion to the subject. 

You will readily believe that Marie lost no opportu¬ 
nity of instructing her children out of the Scriptures. 
Most frequently all she could venture on was to repeat 
to them from memory some of the passages with which 
her mind was well stored. But occasionally, at long 
intervals, circumstances did arise in which she dared to 
indulge her children and herself, by bringing out the 
precious volume, and reading to them from its pages, 
or hearing them read to her. 

Such an occasion was the present. Father Joseph 
was confined to bed by serious illness, and the parish 
priest appointed head spy in his absence, had been sent 
for to a distant part of the province. It was, therefore, 
with a feeling of comparative security, that Marie had 
called the girls into her cabinet, and uncovered the 
Bible from its hiding-place for their perusal. This 
hiding-place had been devised by Marie herself, and 
made by Bernard. The open book was nailed upon a 
little wooden bench, whose finely carved legs and feet 
made it a suitable piece of furniture for a drawing-room 



84 


The Huguenot Family. 


even in that ornament-loving age. A false top, thickly 
stuffed, and covered with fine tapestry, stood beside 
Marie, ready to be put on at a moment’s notice. In 
order to secure the open pages from being torn or 
creased, when the top was taken off or put on, a 
strong leathern cover was secured over them, which 
could be easily folded back when the book was 
in use 5 and the false top was skilfully hollowed out 
in the centre, so that while it fitted close round the 
edges, the Bible was preserved from undue presure. A 
long wooden pin at each corner fitted into a correspond¬ 
ing socket in the bench. And although this made it a 
little more difficult to adjust the top in haste, it yet 
insured it from slipping under the hands of the servants 
while dusting or arranging the furniture. 

The two little girls knelt on the floor in front of the 
bench; Marie had been reading to them, but at their 
earnest entreaties she had consented that Hortense 
should now read to her, and she had drawn forward her 
embroidery frame for the purpose of lessening the chance 
of detection in the event of surprise, and was bending 
over it with an apparent intentness well calculated to 
deceive any one who might see her through the win¬ 
dow. 

Whenever Marie was engaged in instructing her 
children, her husband contrived to be present, although 
he always sat, as now, withdrawn from the others, took 
no share in their conversation, and seemed only to find 
food for deeper despair in the words of Scripture which 
he overheard. On this occasion the children had chosen 
a favourite passage, the third chapter of Daniel. Poor 
things, they had known enough of grief and fear to feel 
all the beauty and comfort of the story. Hortense, with 



Remorse, 


85 


her sweet voice, and pretty clear enunciation of each 
syllable, had just read the words, “ If it he so, our God 
whom we serve, is able to deliver us from the burning 
fiery furnace ; and He will deliver us out of thine hand, 
0 king : hut if not, be it known unto thee, 0 king, that 
we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the golden 
image which thou hast set up,” when she was suddenly 
interrupted by a deep groan from her father. 

Marie rose instantly and went to him. The little 
girls, realizing at that moment only one cause of appre¬ 
hension or distress, turned deadly pale. Aimee gave a 
low scream, and hid her face on her sister’s shoulder ; 
and Hortense, with trembling hands, drew forward the 
cover over the Bible, fastened it down, raised the top, 
fixed it in its place, and then sat down upon it, turn¬ 
ing her eyes fearfully towards the door, by which she 
expected to see Father Joseph enter—but no Father 
Joseph made his appearance, and no sound was heard 
except the low whisper of their mother’s voice, as she 
bent over her husband, entreating him to tell her the 
cause of his manifest distress. 

After a few minutes Theodore rose abruptly, almost 
throwing his wife from him, and left the room by a 
door opposite the one Hortense and Aimee were so 
intently watching. Marie stood a moment in doubt, 
and then followed him; but he had reached his own 
room, had bolted himself in, and refused her admittance, 
in spite of all her tearful efforts to shake his determina¬ 
tion. A few minutes she gave to the indulgence of 
sorrow at this fresh proof of her husband’s reserve to¬ 
wards her, to whom he had been used to confide every 
thought—a few more to seeking her Saviour’s sympathy 
and comfort, and then she went to rejoin her children. 



86 


The Huguenot Family. 


They in the meantime had been much perplexed at 
what had occurred. 

“ Do you think, after all, that papa could have 
heard Father Joseph coming?" Aimee asked in a 
whisper. 

“ I donT think rhamma would have left us here 
alone, if he had," Hortense answered, still keeping her 
eyes fixed on the door. 

“ Let us go and ask Bernard," Aimee suggested; and 
her sister agreeing, they ran lightly, though a little 
timidly, across the room, through the ante-room, at the 
door of which the faithful Bernard was stationed, to 
guard them from surprise. 

He sat cutting out a little toy for Aimee, with his 
knife, singing, in a low voice, one of the many songs 
of the country. 

“ Oh," cried Aimee at once, “ Bernard has heard, 
has seen nothing, or he would not sit singing there." 

Bernard looked up in surprise. Hortense explained 
that they had feared, perhaps Father Joseph was 
coming. 

“ And the thought made your rosy cheek so pale, 
your bright eyes so wild, my little babes," he said, 
fondling them both. “ Shame on any Father Joseph 
who could teach such young hearts so much fear I But 
be at peace, little ones, no Father Joseph in the 
world can cheat me. Ho Father Joseph in the world 
can come near you without my giving you due warn¬ 
ing." 

“ But while you sing, Bernard, how can you hear 
his soft, soft step ?" Hortense asked doubtfully. 

“ Readily enough, sweet one. Why, my blood be¬ 
gins to boil, my flesh to creep, when he is quarter of a 



Remorse. 


87 


mile off. I do so heartily hate him, and all his crew. 
And see here, as I sit working, the hall-door could not 
open without the light flashing in my eyes. Even if 
I did not hear, I should see him the first moment his 
foot crossed the threshold.’’ 

“ But the door from the tower?” Hortense cried, as 
it suddenly occurred to her mind. “ Oh, Bernard! he 
could get in there, and come round to us by the other 
door, without passing you at all,” 

‘‘ No, Hortense,” said Aimee, “ that door is always 
locked, and the key on the inside. Father Joseph 
could not open that door from the outside.” 

“ Poor innocents! you do not know the people 
who are around you,” Bernard answered sorrowfully. 
“ There is not a servant in the house who would not 
unlock the door for the priest, even though they knew 
that the lives of every one of you depended on keeping 
it shut. But do not look so terrified, sweet ones,” he 
added. “ Old Bernard is a match for the most cun¬ 
ning among them. See here this cord round the foot 
of my stool. It is fastened by a pulley to the tower- 
door, and that door cannot be opened a quarter of an 
inch without my feeling the strain on the cord.” 

Aimee knew little about pulleys. But she had 
perfect confidence in Bernard’s assertion, and in Ber¬ 
nard’s wisdom, and after admiring the toy he was 
making for her, she proposed to Hortense that they 
should go at once and tell mamma and papa what Ber¬ 
nard said, and how certain it was, that no Father 
Joseph could come to them, without Bernard knowing 
about it. 

But Hortense stood still, she looked thoughtful and 
troubled. 



88 


The Huguenot Family, 


Oh, Bernard,” she said, “ surely you are,—surely 
you must be wrong. Not one among them! Oh, 
surely some of them care for us a little ! Why should 
they not ? We have always been kind to them.” 

“ It is not, pretty innocent, that they do not care 
for you. How could any one help caring? But they 
have given themselves, body and soul, to the priests, 
and are bound to do what they command, whatever 
it be. We cannot wonder! They know that the 
priest can work them bitter woe here. They believe 
that he can send them to everlasting misery here¬ 
after.” 

“ But surely there are some, at least, who would 
try to keep me from evil,” she urged tearfully. 

“ Marguerite, poor good soul, loves you dearly, and 
would gladly give her life for yours, but”— 

“ And Ninette,” Aimee cried triumphantly, “ you 
forgot Ninette, you stupid old Bernard.” 

He looked at her compassionately. Ninette was a 
young girl, hired to be the children's special attendant. 
She was gay, animated, and pleasing in manner. She 
professed great affection for the children, and they loved 
her dearly. But of the whole household Ninette was 
the one least to be trusted, the one most devoted to the 
priests, who had taken peculiar care in choosing her, 
because she had, from her position, peculiarly good 
opportunities of serving them. This Bernard knew, 
and he said so. Hortense burst into tears. 

“ Oh, I cannot bear it I” she sobbed out. “ To think 
of so many watching to do us harm. What shall be¬ 
come of us ?” 

Bernard, vexed with himself for having said so much, 
tried to reassure her, and to soften down his own state- 



Remorse. 


89 


merits. But it was from Aimee’s lisping tongue that 
the only sure comfort came. 

Do not cry, dear Hortense,’^ she said, clinging 
round her neck, and kissing her repeatedly. “ Do not 
cry, and do not he afraid of what is to become of us. 
We have not to think about that. It is God who has 
the care of all that.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” Hortense cried, drying her tears. 
“ It is God who has the charge of us, and if the whole 
world were watching to do us harm, we need not fear, 
for God is watching too, to do us good.” 

Marie at this moment came from the inner room, seek¬ 
ing them. They ran to her, and told her all that had 
passed. She spoke to them for a little about it, encour¬ 
aged them to hold fast their confidence in God’s love 
and care, and prayed with them, that He would help 
them to keep it ever in mind. She accompanied them 
to their own room, saw them put to bed, and remained 
beside them until they fell asleep, lest Ninette’s pre¬ 
sence might revive their fears. She then went back 
to the door of her husband’s room. 

It was still bolted. But this time Marie would take 
no denial, she felt that the crisis of his despair had 
come, and she could not bear to sit idle, and away from 
him, while he was passing through such a confiict. 
Overcome, at last, by her importunity, he gave her ad¬ 
mittance. But he did it unwillingly, sullenly. He 
merely drew back the bolt, and returned to his seat 
without opening the door for her, or looking round 
when she entered. She went timidly up to him j lay¬ 
ing her hand on his shoulder, and resting her head 
lightly against his, she waited for a few minutes, hop¬ 
ing he would speak, were it only to ask why she had 

G 




90 


The Huguenot Family, 


come. But when he continued obstinately silent, she 
could bear it no longer, but began again in a low, 
agitated voice, to beg for his confidence. For her sake, 
if not for his own, she pleaded. And she bade him 
remember how much sorrow she had to bear, and en¬ 
treated him not to add to it by this terrible reserve. 

“It is because I do remember, Marie, that I am so 
determined not to increase your sorrow by the know¬ 
ledge of my misery,” he said at last. “ To be bound for 
life to a husband you cannot love, whom you must 
despise in your heart,—that is burden enough for you 
to bear.” 

“ I do not contradict you,” she answered, kissing 
him fondly, “ because I know I need not. You do not 
believe what you say.” 

“ I do believe it,” he cried with vehemence. “ How 
can I help believing it, when I remember what I am ? 
How can you help despising the base, cowardly apos¬ 
tate ? Oh, Marie I would to God I had died before that 
terrible hour!” 

“ My own dearest husband, it makes me so glad to 
hear you speak thus,” she began; but he interrupted 
her even fiercely. 

“ Did you not know before I said it, that my whole 
soul was bowed down with sorrow and shame ? Did 
you think I could deny my Lord, could cast myself 
for ever out of His presence and favour, and not 
feel remorse ? Did you think me quite careless, 
quite hardened? Marie, you might have known me 
better.” 

“ And did know you better,” she said earnestly. 
But he did not hear her. He went on with increasing 
agitation. 



Remorse. 


91 


“ Not one hour, not one moment of peace or rest 
have I enjoyed since that day. In all places, in all 
companies, in all occupations, one thought weighs me 
down to the dust, that I have forsaken God, and that 
He has left me for ever. I see it written on every¬ 
thing upon which I look. I hear it in every sound 
that fills my ear. The daylight is a burden to me I 
can hardly hear. The dreams of night, a horror that 
will, in the end, drive me mad.'^ He could say no 
more, but covering his face with his hands, he groaned 
aloud, and his whole body shook with the excess of his 
agitation. 

It was terrible to see the strong man’s agony. 
But Marie nerved herself to bear it. She clasped him 
tightly in her arms, as if to give him strength and com¬ 
fort, even in her feeble support. And when his agita¬ 
tion began to subside, she forcibly subdued her own 
feelings, that she might be able to speak to him calmly 
and distinctly. She explained to him how much he 
had misunderstood her. 

“ I said I was glad, my dearest husband, not because 
words were necessary to make me know the depth of 
your repentance ; but because, by speaking of it, you 
have broken down the icy wall of reserve you have 
hitherto kept between us. You cannot think, dear 
Theodore, what a load it takes from my heart to be 
once again admitted to share, all your sorrow.” 

A load was taken from his heart too, although he 
was hardly conscious of it. He made room for Marie 
to sit beside him, returned her caresses, and no longer 
seemed to shrink from her expressions of afiection. 
Gently, gradually she led him to speak of the past, even 
of the day which had seen the beginning of all hip 



92 


The Huguenot Family. 


misery. And she saw, that so far from seeking to ex¬ 
cuse himself by exaggerating the strength of the temp¬ 
tation, he seemed morbidly afraid that she should seek 
to speak a false peace to him, when she alluded to all 
he had suffered before he had yielded. He seemed to 
take a certain pleasure in thinking as ill of himself as 
possible ; nay, even to think worse of himself than was 
true. At first, she tried gently to combat this tendency 
to excessive self-condemnation. But when she saw that 
argument only irritated him, and made him more ob¬ 
stinate in his own opinion, she desisted, and contented 
herself with encouraging him to speak more openly and 
fully of all he felt. 

He told her it was not at first that he felt the depth 
of his wretchedness. At first he was like a man stunned, 
who could neither understand what has happened, nor 
appreciate its importance. But gradually this torpor 
passed away, and then each month, each week increased 
his remorse, until he felt as if he could not bear the 
anguish of his mind for another day, another hour. 

“ Often,” he said, “ have I resolved to end the con¬ 
test and my life at once; but always, when the moment 
came, my courage failed,—not through fear for myself, 
I could not be worse than I am—not through any vain 
hope of ever being better prepared to die; were I to 
live a thousand years, I could never be nearer God’s 
favour and pardon than I am now,—but I had not the 
courage to take from you, Marie, your last hope of my 
repentance. And yet,” checking himself, “ it seems 
that I am even now trying to do that thing.” 

“ But you have not, you never can do it,” she an¬ 
swered eagerly. “ Oh! my dear husband, why cannot 
you see that the God who has blessed you with a sense 



Remorse. 


93 


of your sin, who has kept you from hardness of heart, 
is ready to perfect that which concerneth you, and to 
give you pardon and peace?” 

But with all the pertinacity of despair he rejected 
her words, and entreated her not to argue further. 

“ You cannot convince me, knowing what I know, 
feeling what I feel here,” laying his hand on his heart, 
“ and unless you knew and felt what I do, I could not 
convince you. Let us leave that matter now—suffer 
me to go on—I wish to tell you what particularly 
wounded me to-day.” 

He said that for the last week, since Father Joseph 
had been ill, and he had been left more alone, allowed 
more time to think and feel, his misery had increased 
terribly; and on tiiis morning, which had been a par¬ 
ticularly fine one, he had felt as if the bright sunshine, 
the song of the birds, the merry voices of his own 
children, every sight or sound of happiness only aggra¬ 
vated his sense of suffering beyond endurance. And he 
had taken a long solitary walk, hoping, by exhausting 
his strength, to deaden his sensibility to pain; but he 
found, on the contrary, that the more the body suffered 
from weariedness, the deeper and blacker grew the de¬ 
pression on his spirit; and at last completely worn out 
with the contest, he had sat down on the fallen trunk of 
a tree, feeling that he might never have strength to 
reach home. 

He had sat there some time, gloomy, abstracted, ob¬ 
serving nothing, when his ear was caught by the sound 
of cart wheels and horses’ feet on the little road close to 
him. He rose quickly to go away in the other direc¬ 
tion, anxious to avoid meeting any one, when he saw’ 
the driver of the cart was Pierre Lajou, one of his own 




94 


The Huguenot Family. 


tenants, and a man in whom he felt a peculiar kind of 
interest from the similarity of their situations. Pierre 
had been a zealous Protestant, a devoted Christian, but 
like Theodore, he had fallen in the day of trial, while, 
like Marie, his wife had held fast her constancy. A 
strong undefined feeling of curiosity, interest, sympathy, 
induced Theodore to remain and watch this man, all 
the more that he could read in his haggard counte¬ 
nance, downcast eye, slouching figure, and listless gait, 
a clear transcript of his own feelings. The grain in 
the rye-field where Theodore stood, was cut down, and 
Pierre had come to cart it away. The Count drew him¬ 
self up behind a tree as the cart and its driver passed 
close to him; but it was a needless precaution. Pierre 
never looked round, and seemed indifferent to, and un¬ 
observant of, everything. He went with a kind of 
mechanical precision about his work, and had nearly 
filled his cart, when a sudden impulse seemed to seize 
him. He let fall the sheaf he had raised on his fork, 
and after standing a moment motionless, threw himself 
on his face on the ground. 

“ Never before did I know what envy was,” Theo¬ 
dore said, with a trembling voice, “ for, Marie, I saw 
he was praying, and I cannot pray. At first it seemed 
a silent wrestling with his own heart, then words, 
came forth, vague, confused cries for mercy, which 
seemed to cut my heart in pieces, for my dumb soul 
cannot cry, never shall cry again. Then these changed 
into full, humble confession of sin, and gradually,—oh 
happy, oh blessed man I that was succeeded by passion¬ 
ate pleading for mercy, for pardon. He pleaded God's 
own promises—he entreated Him for his own sake, for 
His mercy, for His truth’s sake, to wash out his sins 



Remorse, 


95 


in the Lamb’s blood. But when be began in a voice 
broken with tears to tbank God for His mercy, I could 
stand it no longer, I rose and fled borne, feeling that I 
should gladly have given all I possess to be only as 
wretched as I was when I entered that field.” 

And again bis bead was bowed down on bis bands, 
and he groaned aloud. As well as she could command 
her voice, Marie again spoke words of comfort, remind¬ 
ing him that Pierre could only obtain pardon through 
Christ’s merits, and that His merits were such as no 
depth of sinfulness could overpass. But again he bade 
her cease, though this time less harshly, and she thought 
less gloomily, than before. He went on to finish his 
story. 

The comparison between the pardoned man’s state 
and his own, had weighed like an intolerable burden 
on his heart all day. He had gone with Marie to hear 
the children read, with the conviction that he could 
only hear what would increase his despair—a convic¬ 
tion, he said, perfectly fulfilled. Every word fell like 
burning lead upon his heart, until at last, when Hor- 
tense read those noble words of the believing Jews, he 
could no longer suppress the expression of his feelings, 
and that groan had burst from him which had so 
alarmed them all. 

“ Do not call my agony repentance, Marie—repent¬ 
ance it is not. It is merely the natural agony of one 
who sees others enjoy a blessing which is for ever be¬ 
yond his reach. One consequence of to-day’s scene 
may, however, comfort you. After being the witness 
of God’s goodness and grace to that poor sinner, I can 
never again dishonour Him as I have done—I have 
been at mass for the last time.” 



96 


The Huguenot Faniily. 


Marie's heart leapt for joy at these words ; spoken 
as they were, she could not doubt their sincerity. She 
asked him what he intended to do. 

“ It is not befitting such a wretch as I am,” he said, 
sadly and humbly, “ to make an open confession of the 
faith—such an honour would be too high for me. I 
shall merely stay away from all idolatrous ceremonies, 
and suffer Father Joseph to demand an explanation 
when he pleases. It would not become me to offer 
one.” 

Marie's first feeling at this change in her husband 
was that of unmixed thankfulness; but after a little, 
natural fears for his safety began to arise. As a re¬ 
lapsed Protestant, he could expect no mercy—no rank 
or influence could protect him, and she trembled to 
think of what might be before him. 

“ I know it, Marie,” he said calmly, when she spoke 
of her fears, “ but it was my own sin which placed me 
in this position, and it is fitting I should bear the in¬ 
creased suffering it brings upon me.” 

“ But why brave such suffering?” Marie cried eager¬ 
ly. “ Oh, Theodore ! let us fly at once. Let us leave 
this place—this country. Let me wake the children, 
and we can go at once.” 

“ Go at once! and how, my dear Marie?” he asked 
with a melancholy smile. 

“ As we are—on foot, any way—only let us lose no 
time ; let us go now this very night—in five minutes 
I can be ready.” 

“ On foot I you and the children on foot! You, who 
never walked a mile in your life—whose foot never 
trod a rougher path than your own grass walks and 
terraces ?” 



Remorse. 


97 


Marie thought of her lonely midnight journeys to 
the conventicles in the forest; hut of these Theodore 
knew nothing. Dreading for him the trying ordeal 
of confession, she had been careful to conceal every 
transaction of hers which could in any way compromise 
him with the priests. And although he had of course 
observed her occasional mysterious absence during the 
greater part of the night, he had never imagined the 
truth—could not indeed have believed that she could 
have either strength or courage for such an adventure, 
but had always supposed these hours were given to 
private reading and prayer, at a time when there was 
no eye to watch, no intruder to disturb her. Marie’s 
own remembrance of these expeditions had, however, 
the effect of lessening her confidence in her power to 
endure fatigue. She thought of the excessive exhaus¬ 
tion she had felt, remembered the weary, painful, stag¬ 
gering step with which she had always ended her walk, 
her total unfitness for any exertion for days after, and 
felt painfully how impossible it would be to keep up day 
after day. Under all the fatigue their fiight must entail. 

But at all events,” she urged, “ let us at once 
arrange a plan by which we can get away. Surely 
something can be done.” 

“ Such a plan might be found, I dare say, my dear 
Marie,” he said decidedly, “ but I cannot think of 
flight. It is my duty to remain where I am, and bear 
whatever God sees fit to send upon me. I delude my¬ 
self with no vain hope that any suffering can expiate 
the past—that any constancy in a wretch like me can 
be acceptable in His eyes. But still, to take patiently 
what He appoints, is my duty, and I cannot again sin 
against Him in refusing it.” 



98 The Huguenot Family, 

Marie tried to combat this false sense of duty by 
every argument in her power, and entreated him for 
bis children’s sake to fly and save his life, that he 
might be able to care for and protect them. But argu¬ 
ment and entreaty were equally powerless. The one 
he met with counter arguments, specious if not sound. 
The other he turned from as a temptation to leave the 
right path. 

One plea alone remained; and with a trembling, 
timid heart, Marie determined to try it. 

“You are then willing,” she said solemnly, “to run 
the risk of a second apostasy ?” 

Fire flashed from his eyes, a burning flush of anger 
rose to his very forehead. But it was immediately 
succeeded by an expression of the deepest self-abase¬ 
ment. 

“ I have no right to expect that you should trust in 
my sincerity,” he said mournfully. 

“ I have the fullest trust in the sincerity of your in¬ 
tentions, my own dear husband,” she answered with 
the utmost tenderness. “ But if you fell in the hour 
of trial before, when you had the joy of God’s presence 
and favour to uphold you, ah I can you hope to per¬ 
severe now, when, as you say, all that strength and 
comfort are withdrawn ?” 

He seemed to feel the force of her words, and she 
hastened to confirm the impression she had made. 

“ As to your scruples that our flight might be a 
sinful avoidance of God’s appointed cross,” she said, 
“ surely there is little foundation for it. To leave for 
ever a home so dear as this, to go out from the land of 
our fathers, is no pleasant thing. The life of wanderers, 
outcast, destitute, friendless in a foreign land, can be 



Remorse, 


99 


no life of ease. And could death itself be more bitter 
than it must be to leave our darling boy alone in this 
land, in prison, danger, and sorrow She could say no 
more. Her own courage failed at such a thought. 

Could she have seen into her husband’s inmost heart, 
she could have chosen no better way to overcome his 
scruples than that she had taken. He was quite sincere 
in saying that he had no hope his sufferings could ex¬ 
piate the past sin. But, unconsciously to himself, the 
prospect of martyrdom was pleasant to him as a means 
to restore him to his own self-esteem. And to shew 
forth the dangers and trials of flight was the best way 
to induce him to consent to fly. Already his imagina¬ 
tion began to busy itself in painting the sorrows, the 
difficulties, and privations such a step must involve. 
And already his spirits began to rise, his self-compla¬ 
cency to revive, at the prospect of meeting and endur¬ 
ing them, rather than sin against God. 

Differently were Marie’s thoughts employed. The 
picture of her boy’s desolation of feeling when he should 
hear they were gone, the thought of all that might 
happen to him while they were far away, completely 
filled her mind and agonized her heart. 

And yet, what good could they do him if they re¬ 
mained? In the event of Theodore’s remaining constant, 
Eugene, as well as the little girls, must, she knew, be for 
ever deprived of both parents. And that her husband 
should again purchase freedom for himself and her by 
apostasy, was an evil more to be dreaded than any 
other that could befall them. Free, and in a foreign 
land, they might be able to help their boy. Here they 
could do nothing. 

So spoke reason. But feeling, too, must have her 



100 The Huguenot Family. 

sway, and although it could not blind Marie’s convic¬ 
tion of what was their duty, or shake her resolution to 
adhere to it, yet it could and did rend her heart with 
the most cruel apprehensions, the most bitter pain. 
And when, after a long silence, Theodore began to 
speak of plans for flight, she started in a kind of panic 
at the bare thought that her own wish was to be 
realized, that wliat she had so urgently pressed upon 
her husband, he was ready to adopt. 

Had any one asked Theodore the question, he would 
have strenuously denied that there was the least light¬ 
ening of that black cloud of despair which had so long 
oppressed him. But nevertheless it was really so. His 
heart was relieved by the free communication of his 
feelings to Marie. And animated by the prospect of 
exchanging the dead, passive, misery of the last twelve- 
months for active exertion, and even for active suffer¬ 
ing, he looked and spoke like the eager, enthusiastic, 
Theodore of other days. It was he who was hopeful 
and fearless now. It was Marie who was hesitating 
and cast down. And long after he had gone to bed 
and fallen asleep, she remained upon her knees, wrest¬ 
ling for submission to God’s will, pleading for faitln 
courage, and guidance for herself and for him who was 
dearer to her than self. 





CHAPTER VIL 


ZEENA. 

AD any doubts remained on Theodore’s mind 
as to the propriety of fleeing from temptation, 
they would have been dissipated by the re¬ 
sults of his first interview with Father Joseph. 
This took place about a week after the con¬ 
versation I have narrated. And when in 
the course of it, allusion was made to the 
Count’s late neglect of his religious duties, he 
found himself, to his surprise and mortification, evading 
all direct answer, hesitating and prevaricating, instead 
of coming forward as he had planned, with an explicit 
avowal of the change in his intentions. This experi¬ 
ence of his own weakness, while it strengthened his re¬ 
solution to fly, and quickened his desire to do so without 
delay, at the same time made him less able to devise 
or carry out the necessary arrangements. In the over¬ 
throw of his lately restored self-confidence was involved 
the loss of all energy and hope. And listless, gloomy, 
and desponding, he left to Marie the task of making 
plans, and preparing for their accomplishment. Hap¬ 
pily no long space was allowed for these depressing 
influences to work. They had soon good ground to 
know that their flight must be immediate, or not at all. 

On the evening of the day following that on which 
Father Joseph had reproved Theodore’s non-attendance 




102 


The Huguenot Family, 


at chapel, Marie, her husband, and children, were to¬ 
gether in the flower garden at the side of the chMeau 
The children had drawn their father forward to shew 
him a new flower, and Marie was following slowly, 
when, as she passed a thick clump of tall shrubs, she felt 
something slightly catch her dress. Supposing it to be 
the branch of a tree, she turned to disentangle herself, 
when she was startled to see a pair of wild bright eyes 
looking at her through an opening in the shrubs, and 
to perceive that it was the hand belonging to these same 
eyes which had caught her robe. Her first impulse was 
to scream aloud for her husband. But she had learned 
presence of mind and self-restraint in a hard school, 
and after looking round to make sure that he was 
within call, she turned again, looked steadily at the 
eyes, and asked in a low but firm voice, who was there ? 

“Do you not know me, lady?’’ was the answer in 
a peculiar accent. And the thick foliage was parted 
so as to give her a better view of the concealed person’s 
face. 

Marie at once recognised a gipsy, or as they called them 
in France, a Bohemian woman, to whom she had lately 
been of great service. It was about six weeks before 
this time that Marie in returning home from a midnight 
preaching had occasion to pass through one of the 
wildest and most desolate parts of the forest belonging 
to the chateau. Her fellow-worshippers had one by one 
turned off to their own homes. Alone, unprotected, 
the darkness increasing the reality as well as the ap¬ 
prehension of danger, she was hastening on as rapidly 
as fatigue and the impediments in the way would admit, 
when, to her inexpressible alarm, she heard a loud 
rustling among the trees by her side. The dread 



Zeena. 


103 


whicli first occurred to chill her heart and blanch her 
cheek, was of wolves. But at this season they seldom 
ventured so near the dwellings of man, and a momentary 
fiash of light among the leaves dispelled that appre¬ 
hension, to make way for others hardly less terrible, 
of priestly spies, or reckless robbers who might mur¬ 
der her for the sake of her rich dress and ornaments. 
While she hesitated whether to draw back and try to 
hide herself among the trees, or to go softly on, hoping 
to escape unseen and unheard, the branches imme¬ 
diately in front of her were parted, and a figure came 
out on the path. It was a woman, this same gipsy. She 
held a small lantern, and its light flashing fitfully upon 
her dark, fierce countenance, her long straight hair and 
strange dress increased the wildness of her whole ap¬ 
pearance. Still she was a woman. There was comfort 
in the thought. And that she was a gipsy rather 
lessened than increased Marie’s fear. 

These poor outcasts of the human race had always 
been objects of interest and pity at Beauchardis. The 
Marquis was always ready and zealous to do good to 
all within his reach. And to his generous, I might 
say chivalrous spirit, to be oppressed and despised was 
a sure passport to his help and protection. From him 
Marie had early learned to shew kindness to a race 
feared, avoided, or persecuted by others. No gipsy ever 
left the chMeau of Blancard without their wants sup¬ 
plied. No gipsy encampment was ever dislodged from 
the place it had taken up upon the Count’s grounds. 
And whenever either he or his wife met any of the 
wanderers, they were sure to give them kind and gentle 
words and looks, if not more substantial proofs of their 
interest. The gipsies are not an ungrateful people. 



104 


The Huguenot Family. 


After the fashion of their race all these deeds of 
kindness were recorded from one wandering party to 
another, until there was hardly a member of their body 
in all France who had not learned to look upon the 
two houses of Beauchardis and Blancard with grati¬ 
tude and respect. And these feelings were legible on 
the countenance and manner of the woman who now 
addressed Marie. 

“ Do not be afraid, lady,’’ she said, trying to soften 
her harsh voice. “ Do not be afraid, it is Zeena who 
speaks; and she would sooner cut off her right hand 
than hurt a hair of the head of her who protects and 
succours her people. I knew it was you, lady. I 
saw you pass our camp three hours ago. I knew 
where you had gone; and when I heard the soft foot 
fall, I said to myself, It is the gentle one coming 
back.” 

“ And what do you want with me, good Zeena?” 
Marie asked, a little tremulously. “ Can I do you 
any good ?” 

“ Good! Ah, lady I the greatest in the world, if 
you are willing.” A groan of great agony from the 
thicket near them interrupted her. Marie started in 
horror. A look of anguish came over the gipsy’s face. 

“ It is my boy,” she cried passionately; “ my own 
bright boy; my firstborn—the sunshine of my life— 
the treasure of my heart!” 

“ And what is the matter?” Marie asked,—all per¬ 
sonal fear forgotten in sympathy for the mother’s grief. 
“ How can I help you ?” 

“ Lady, he has fallen from the top of a high rock, 
and is fearfully hurt. He did not come home. I went 
to seek him, and found him crushed—bruised—his leg 



Zeena. 


105 


broken. Oh, my boy, my boy!’' she exclaimed in 
agony, as another deep groan reached their ears. 
“ Lady, I cannot leave him! I cannot carry him to 
the camp alone. Will you send me help ?” 

“ I will, I will!” Marie cried eagerly,* starting for¬ 
ward at a rapid pace towards the chateau. “ Some of 
our men shall be here as soon as possible.^' But the 
gipsy stopped her. 

“ Dear lady,” she said with a half smile, even in 
that moment exulting in the knowledge she possessed 
of the other’s position and circumstances,—a know¬ 
ledge her race prided themselves in. “ Dear lady, 
how can you allow your people to know where you 
have been ? And even if you could, they must know 
nothing about us. The monks have vowed vengeance 
against us for some small thefts from their farm-yard, 
and your servants are all the paid spies of the monks. 
No, if you wish to help us, you will go to the camp, 
and send my people here.” 

“ To the camp!” Marie exclaimed; “ oh, I dare 
not.” 

“ Nay, lady, not one of our people would lift a 
finger, would raise an eyelid against you or yours. It 
is but a quarter of an hour’s distance from here—not 
so much; and the road is safe—quite safe, or Zeena 
would not have asked you.” 

“ But how can I find the path ?” 

“ See here, lady;” and the gipsy made way for 
Marie to pass among the branches at the side of the 
road; and, throwing forward the light of her lantern, 
she shewed her a narrow winding path leading into 
the heart of the wood. 

Marie shrank in irrepressible dread from the very 

H 




106 


The Huguenot Family. 


thouglit of undertaking such an enterprise. The light 
of the lantern illuminated only a small space, making 
the dense wood beyond look more dark and dreary by 
contrast. And if she were frequently in danger of 
losing her way in the straight beaten path she was ac¬ 
customed to pursue, how could she hope to keep it in 
an intricate strange one like this ? 

“ Oh, I cannot go I” she cried in great agitation. “ It 
is impossible—I cannot.” A groan, or rather a shriek 
of pain, from the poor sufferer, checked the words. 

“ 0 lady I” cried the poor mother, you, too, have 
a son; for his sake will you not save my boy?” 

‘‘ I will, I will I” Marie cried, overcome by such a 
plea. “ Only tell me where to go.” 

“ You cannot miss the path. The trees on each 
side are so close, the bushes so thick, you could not 
make your way through them if you would. You 
must go on till you come to the old quarry; you can¬ 
not mistake it. In this light it will be like a great 
mountain. If you have seen or heard nothing before 
you come there, stand still, and call ‘ Dibon.' My 
husband will come to you. Tell him what has hap¬ 
pened : he will know what to do. Take the lantern, 
you will need it more than I do.” 

Marie would not allow herself time to hesitate, but 
set out at once on her difficult journey. It was a 
difficult one in truth. Unaccustomed to the use of a 
lantern, its feeble, flickering light was more a hindrance 
than a help. She was constantly and unconsciously 
changing its direction, and then starting violently, or 
stopping suddenly short, at the deep shade she herself 
had cast on her path. She got on but slowly, and her 
fears making the time seem longer than it was, she 



Zeena. 


107 


began to think she must have lost the right road, and 
have passed the quarry. Just as these apprehensions 
■were deepening into certainty, a sudden turn brought 
her directly in front of what she sought. As the gipsy 
had said, it looked gigantic in the feeble light. At 
the same time, Marie heard a low whistle behind her. 
It was answered by a similar one in front. There 
was a crashing of branches, and a voice demanded, 
“ Who is there so close to her side, that Marie 
could not repress a slight scream of alarm. 

The gruff challenge was instantly succeeded by an 
exclamation of surprise ; “ The lady from the chateau, 
at this time?’' for Marie in her efforts to make her 
lantern shew her who spoke, had only succeeded in 
throwing a brilliant illumination over her own person. 

“ Are you Dibon ?” she asked tremulously. 

“ I am, lady. What can Dibon do for you?" 

Marie hurriedly told her errand. 

“ My poor boy I" the father said, with much feeling. 
Then coming forward, and taking Marie's hand with 
an air of respectful gratitude, he continued: “ And 
you, gentle one, came all this way alone to tell the 
poor father. How can Dibon thank you ? Come with 
me for a moment," and he led her gently forward 
within the bushes. 

She found herself in a small open spot of ground. 
The deserted quarry inclosed it on three sides, a thick 
row of brushwood and young trees on the fourth. A 
small fire burned on the ground in one corner,—an 
overhanging rock concealing its light from the path. 
There were two young men before the fire, and a third, 
the one whose whistle Marie had first heard, followed 
his father and her. 



108 


The Huguenot Family. 


‘‘ You tremble, lady. Your hand is very cold; 
your cheek is very pale,” said the gipsy, looking closely 
at her, when the full light of the fire fell upon them. 
“ You do not fear Dibon ?” 

“ No,” Marie answered, hardly able to keep back a 
burst of hysterical tears. “ But I am very much 
fatigued, and I am not accustomed to walk alone, and 
at such an hour.” 

“ True, true, and it must not be,” he said eagerly; 
and, turning to the other men, he gave some orders in 
a language she did not understand. Two of them in¬ 
stantly disappeared round an angle of the rock; the 
third, a fine-looking boy of about sixteen, came up to 
her, and gently took from her the lantern she held. 

“ I must go to my poor boy, lady,” said Dibon; 
‘‘but Michaut shall take you home by a nearer road. 
Trust to him. There is not one of our race would 
harm the least thing belonging to you.” 

Marie looked anxiously in the boy's face. Though 
dark and wild, the expression was good, and she felt 
she might trust him. Nor was her confidence mis¬ 
placed. He led her by a road much shorter than the 
one she knew. He watched to throw the light before 
her feet, and to remove impediments from her path ; 
and when he saw that her steps faltered from fatigue, 
he offered her the support of his shoulder to lean upon, 
with a modest grace that might have become any 
noble of the land. 

After this night Marie had several times made her way 
to the quarry to ask for the sick boy, and had oftener 
still seen Zeena, who used to come to an appointed 
spot to receive little luxuries for him, and to bring 
Marie the report of his condition. Bernard was the 



Zeena. 


109 


only one of the servants whom the gipsies would suffer 
to approach their place of concealment; hut he for 
some time went daily to carry such comforts as even 
their thievish talents could not procure. The hoy had 
been very much hurt, hut the gipsies are excellent 
nurses : he recovered more rapidly than could have 
been expected. His father, anxious to leave the neigh¬ 
bourhood of the monastery, had enlarged their small 
covered cart, so as to let him lie in it at full length; 
and Marie having understood that they were to go 
away some days before this, was proportionably sur¬ 
prised to see Zeena. 

“ Is your boy worse she asked eagerly. “ Is 
there anything I can do for you ?” 

“ Ho, no, lady; not for me. It is no want of mine 
that has brought me here. But, lady, you and your 
husband are in great danger. I came to warn you. 
I must speak to you both alone, and that soon.” 

Marie was puzzled. She could not take the gipsy to 
the house; neither would it be safe to stand and speak 
to her there. They were every moment liable to in¬ 
terruption. 

‘‘ Hear, lady,” said the gipsy, after a moment’s 
thought, “ this will do. In two hours the sun will 
have set. It will be quite dark. Do you and your 
husband come up to the top of the old ruined tower, 
I shall meet you there. Hone of the servants will 
venture near that place after dark; and that old man 
who used to bring messes for my boy can watch while 
we speak. But some one comes. I must go. Ee- 
member, in two hours.” 

Marie looked round to see who was coming, and 
when she turned back to the shrubs, the space through 



110 


The Huguenot Family. 


wliich had gleamed the bright eyes of the gipsy was 
vacant; there was neither sight nor sound to tell that 
any one was or had been there. 

It was one of the gardeners who had interrupted 
them, one who, as Marie well knew, was engaged to 
watch her every action. Her hurried dialogue with 
the gipsy had not lasted more than a minute, but yet she 
felt that even for that short time her attitude of atten¬ 
tion at such a place must have seemed mysterious to 
any one who might have observed her. She resolved 
to dispel any suspicion the man might entertain. She 
stepped back a step or two, still looking intently at the 
mass of evergreens, and when he came up, she called 
him to her side. 

“ Those shrubs ought to be cut, I think,” she said ; 
“ they are not nearly so compact as they used to be; 
see here, and here, and there,” and she pointed out a 
few blanks in the wall of green. 

“ I think,” she continued, “ they might look very 
well cut like those on the other side of the garden, let 
us go and look at them—we shall then be better able 
to judge.” 

And she led him to a distant part of the grounds, and 
detained him there, first with an earnest discussion upon 
the best mode of pruning shrubs, then by giving him 
minute directions about a new flower-bed she wished 
him to make, entering with animation into the ques¬ 
tion of the comparative merits of different shapes of 
flower-beds in general, and the suitability of one in 
particular, to the spot in question. 

The man was surprised at the interest she showed in 
the business; he had always thought her shamefully 
indifferent to everything of the kind. Poor Marie ! he 



Zeena. 


Ill 


had not known you in your happy days! He could not 
understand her sudden interest; hut it would have re¬ 
quired a quicker wit than his to connect it with the 
suspicions which had risen in his mind, as he had 
watched her bending so intently forward to so unin¬ 
teresting an object as a mass of shrubs. 

When she had said all she could find to say upon the 
matter, and thought she had allowed Zeena time to 
escape, Marie dismissed her attendant, and went to 
join her husband and children. She met them coming 
to seek her. 

“ Mamma,’^ cried Hortense, “ we could not think 
where you were.” 

“Could you not, my dear?” she said absently. While 
with the gardener she had schooled her countenance 
and manner so as to appear unconcerned and at ease; 
but now that the immediate pressure was removed, she 
betrayed to her husband the anxiety that weighed on 
her mind. 

“ What is wrong, Marie ?” he asked in a low voice. 

“ I cannot tell you while they are here,” looking at 
the children. 

She glanced impatiently up at the sun. Eestless, 
eager to know the worst, it seemed as if the time of 
suspense would never be done. And yet she had much 
to do before the interview could take place. She had 
to prepare her husband for it, to give Bernard the di¬ 
rections as to the part he was to take, to get rid of the 
children, and to devise a feasible mode of eluding the 
watchfulness of the servants while keeping her appoint¬ 
ment. These two last matters presented no small diffi¬ 
culty. On this particular evening Marguerite was from 
home visiting a sister. She was not expected to return 



112 


The Huguenot Family. 


till the next morning, and Ninette was the children's 
only attendant for the night. Since a suspicious dread 
of her had been implanted in their minds by Bernard, 
Marie had been careful never to leave them alone with 
her. She had got into the custom of staying with them 
every night until they fell asleep ; and she knew not 
how to break through this custom without assigning a 
reason, which, if repeated by them, might excite sus¬ 
picion in Ninette’s mind; and even if the children 
were safely disposed of, how could she and her hus¬ 
band remain out of doors in a dark, chill autumn 
night, without awakening the curiosity of some of the 
spies by whom they were surrounded, and exciting 
them to investigate into the cause of so unusual a pro¬ 
cedure ? 

While she anxiously considered these questions, she 
walked silent and abstracted by her husband’s side. 
After he had watched her for a few minutes, he sent 
the children off in a race, and then again asked her 
what had happened. 

She told him all she knew. The prospect of imme¬ 
diate and certain danger seemed to arouse his spirit 
and energy. 

“ I think we can manage it all,” he said after a mo¬ 
ment’s pause. “ Hortense, Aimee,” calling to the little 
girls who were coming back breathless, and smiling to 
tell the issue of their race, “ run to the house and de¬ 
sire the servants to send Bernard to me. Bid him bring 
his axe, saw, hammer, and some strong nails—I must 
get him to alter that arch,” turning to Marie, and 
pointing to the opening into a covered walk formed of 
different kind of creepers trained over a light frame¬ 
work. “ It offends my eye very much j and Bernard 



Zeena, 


113 


is the only man about the place who has taste and sense 
to put it right. 

This order excited no surprise. Bernard was the 
acknowledged favourite of his master. His expertness 
in all kinds of handicraft was well known, and he was 
frequently applied to for help in similar matters by all 
members of the family. 

He soon appeared, Theodore went with him to the 
arch, and they remained there for a considerable time, 
taking down, putting up, sawing, nailing, &c. &c. 
Marie sat down on a seat not far off—she sent the 
children numerous errands to different parts of the gar¬ 
den, both to amuse them and to keep them out of their 
father’s way; but she herself felt too anxious, too un¬ 
easy to be able to leave the spot. The sun had set— 
she felt sure the two hours must be more than past, and 
still Theodore remained working, talking, and appa¬ 
rently thinking of nothing but his work. The sus¬ 
pense and anxiety were getting insupportable, when he 
turned towards her, saying aloud,— 

There, Bernard, that is all we can do to-night, it 
is quite dark. Marie,” coming up to her, “ the even¬ 
ing star is shining most beautifully behind those trees, 
shall we go up to the top of the old tower and look 
at it ?” 

“ And we go too, papa?” cried the children. 

Marie was going to refuse this request, but their 
father acquiesced at once, only making the condition 
that they were to go away without remonstrance when¬ 
ever their mamma thought it too cold for them. 

“ Shall I bid Ninette bring cloaks for my lady and 
the young ladies ?—the air will be very cold up there,” 
said Bernard. 



114 


The Huguenot Family. 


“ Yes, do,’^ was the Count's answer. “ Tell her to 
come after ns, we shall go slowly on.” 

Marie could not understand the plan ; but she could 
not ask an explanation, and took her husband’s arm in 
silence. The stair in the tower was quite dark—the 
children were in great glee at the excitement and no¬ 
velty of their position, and their young clear voices 
rang merrily through the old tower, as they went up 
clinging to their father and mother, and laughing at 
their frequent stumbles and difficulties. The door of 
Eugene’s prison stood partly open ; the comparative 
lightness of the room caught their eye, and Hortense 
asked her mother what place it was. Marie answered 
carelessly, quite unconscious of the thrilling interest 
the small chamber ought to have possessed for her. 

They went up to the top, and passed out through the 
little door on to the battlemented roof. Ninette followed 
immediately after them; Bernard, in his politeness, 
escorted her, and there seemed to be a good deal of 
jesting and smothered laughter between them as they 
came up. When Ninette tied on the little girls' cloaks, 
she laughingly whispered that the wicked Bernard had 
been trying to frighten her with fearful stories about 
ghosts, adding that she would not for the world go 
down that stair alone at night. 

“ I should not be afraid,” said little Aimee; “ God 
can take care of me in the night as well as in the 
day.” 

“ Yes,” gravely interposed Hortense, “ God says 
that the darkness and the light are both alike to Him. 
They should be both alike to us too, for God is always 
taking care of us.” 

Ninette crossed herself at the sound of words she 



Zeena, 


115 


Biipposed were from the Bible. Aimee looked at her 
in innocent wonder. She had often seen the same 
mystical action before without understanding it. With 
a little childish laugh she began to imitate Ninette’s 
gesture, when her mother observing it, called her in 
sudden terror to her side. To make the sign of the 
cross was to profess the Catholic religion, and the 
merest child who was tempted to make it, even in 
sport, was from that moment in the power of the Church. 
Marie had often forbidden the girls to imitate this ges¬ 
ture, knowing that Ninette used every device to tempt 
them to it; and Aimee fancying that her mamma’s 
agitated manner proceeded from displeasure at her dis¬ 
obedience, ran to her at once to beg for pardon, and 
plead forgetfulness. Of course, Ninette was not in¬ 
tended to know of the prohibition; and in order to stop 
such inopportune apologies, and to divert the children’s 
minds, Theodore began to point out to them the various 
groups of stars now shining brightly in the fast dark¬ 
ening sky, to tell them some of the wonders about their 
real magnitude and distance, and in his own poetic 
style to describe some of the strange scenes in various 
ages and various countries, upon which these silent 
stars had looked down. 

The love of astronomy had been quite a passion with 
him. And in former times he had taken great pleasure 
in endeavouring, by such lessons, to imbue his children 
with a similar taste. It was to Marie like a return to 
these happy days, to stand leaning on her husband’s 
arm, listening to the glowing, eloquent language in 
which his thoughts naturally clothed themselves, and 
watching the interest with which the little ones listened, 
and the intelligence with which they grasped and en- 



116 


The Huguenot Family. 


tered into his ideas and feelings. For the moment she 
forgot all anxiety, forgot the cause of their being there, 
forgot to dread the gipsy’s appearing among them, 
or to watch for it. 

Theodore mentioned the beautiful cross of the south¬ 
ern hemisphere. 

“ Oh,” cried Hortense, “ Bernard has told us of 
that, Bernard has seen it. He saw it when he went 
that long voyage with grandpapa, that he likes to tell 
us about. Tell us what you saw, Bernard. Where is 
Bernard ?” looking round. 

“ He went down again immediately. Mademoiselle,” 
said Ninette. “ He said he was going to saw off an 
ugly, rough beam, which might make you trip in the 
darkness. And he has been at it ever since. Have 
you not observed the tiresome sound of his harsh saw 
going incessantly ?” 

As she spoke the sound ceased, and in another 
minute Bernard was with them. 

“ I came up to he ready to carry down Mademoiselle 
Aimee, whenever Madame might think fit to send the 
little ladies away,” he said. 

“ Yes, yes, it is quite time you should go, children,” 
said the Count, hastily. 

They remonstrated, and entreated for permission to 
remain, but their father was peremptory, and seemed 
impatient to get them away. 

“ It is so pleasant up here,” sighed Hortense. “ Dear 
papa, we shall come again, shall we not? You will 
bring us soon again, will you not ? To-morrow night, 
perhaps ?” 

“Yes, yes, to-morrow night, any night you please, 
only go now,” was the hurried answer. 



Zeena. 


117 


“ Oh, how charming 1” they both cried. “ Ninette, 
Bernard, we are to come here to-morrow night, any 
night we please. Is it not charming ?” 

Poor children ! they little thought that they should 
never again stand on that tower, never again look forth 
on that starlit scene. But to go on. 

Marie remarked the nervous hurry of her husband’s 
manner. She at once understood that Bernard’s com¬ 
ing up was a preconcerted signal of the gipsy’s ap¬ 
proach, and her heart beat quick at the apprehension, 
that Ninette might meet her on the stairs. With 
trembling haste she kissed the children, and dismissed 
them, straining every faculty to catch the slightest 
sound, longing that the children’s prattle might cease, 
so that she might hear better ; and yet, when a momen¬ 
tary lull did occur, she grew sick with the dread that 
the stillness might last long enough to deceive the 
gipsy into the belief that she might come up. 

Ninette went down stairs first, holding Hortense by 
the hand. Bernard followed with Aimee in his arms. 
Hortense was next the door into the little room ; and 
when she felt the vacant space of the doorway, she 
paused a moment, and looked in. 

“ How is that door shut now ?” she asked. “ It was 
open when we passed before.” 

Bernard stepped hastily forward, and setting his 
back against the door, cried, laughing— 

“ Shut! Of course it is : I shut it. If I had not, 
we should never have been able to get Mademoiselle 
Ninette to pass it. She is so afraid of the ghosts that 
sleep there. Twenty fair ladies all in a row, without 
their heads.” 



118 The Huguenot Family, 

“ Twenty! 0 Bernard !” and the little girls laughed 
merrily. 

All this was heard hy the watchers above. Marie 
felt her husband start and tremble as Hortense’s excla¬ 
mation fell upon his ear. The gipsy must, then, be in 
that room, and Bernard’s ghost stories had been in¬ 
tended to check Ninette’s curiosity and desire to explore 
its recesses. Marie listened for a minute or two in 
breathless expectation. 

“ They are safe out of the tower,” she whispered as 
she heard Bernard say something about the stars. 

“ Hush,” he answered, “ she is here.” 

And, looking towards the door, Marie saw the tall 
form of the gipsy for an instant, between her and the 
sky. So noiseless was her tread, and so instantane¬ 
ously did she again disappear, that Marie half thought 
her imagination had deceived her. But Theodore led 
her forward, and they found Zeena seated on the leaden 
roof under a battlement, so that the appearance of a 
third figure might not arouse the curiosity of any chance 
watcher from below. She directed Marie and Theodore 
not to stand still looking at her, but to walk about near 
enough to hear her low tones, to look up at the stars, 
and point them out to each other, with as natural ges¬ 
tures as they could. When all was arranged as she 
wished, she at once began her tale, and told it in as 
few words as possible. 

Her boy, she said, had not gained strength so fast as 
they had expected. They had not been able to leave 
when the rest of their party did. It was only the preced¬ 
ing morning that she, with her sick boy and Michaut, 
had set out, leaving her husband and other son to go in 



Zeena, 


119 


a different direction, for some private reason which she 
did not explain. They went no farther than to the 
neighbourhood of a town about ten miles off, where 
some friends were encamped, and where they purposed 
to pass the night. Soon after their arrival, Michaut 
went into the town to get a fowl, fresh eggs, or other 
dainty for the sick boy’s supper. The Vicar-General 
of the district lived here ; and as ecclesiastical larders 
are proverbially well furnished, it was his premises that 
Michaut chose for his first attempt. While prowling 
about, he saw Father Joseph arrive. Poor Father 
Joseph I he had hard work. He had effected consider¬ 
able reform in his monastery, but had not, as yet, infused 
sufficient zeal into the hearts of his subordinates, to 
make it safe to intrust difficult work, or delicate nego¬ 
tiations to their hands. He had to do everything him¬ 
self, from accompanying soldiers on their converting 
expeditions, to carrying reports to the Vicar-General of 
the constancy of the new-made converts. 

Knowing the monk’s hostility to his people, Michaut’s 
first idea was, that the reverend superior had traced 
himself and his party to this spot, and had come to 
warn his ecclesiastical brother against them. He 
resolved to hear all that passed. 

“We people of the forest and heath,” said the gipsy, 
a little proudly, “ know most things. My boy has 
been in that house before. He knows where every 
room lies. He soon got under the window of the pri¬ 
vate study. The afternoon was sultry. The window 
was open. He heard nearly every word. The matter 
was not about poor wanderers like us, but about 
Monsieur le Comte. The priest had complaints to 
make. My boy did not understand well what they 



120 The Huguenot Family, 

meant; but that signifies nothing. You had never 
been a sincere convert, he said, and were now inclined 
to go back even the few steps you had taken. The 
matter was serious but not hopeless. He knew you 
well. Decided measures were all that was necessary, 
all that could do any good. Force you to one other 
act contrary to your conscience, and the battle was 
gained, your courage gone for ever. Suffer you to 
resist successfully only once, and all was lost. You 
would learn to think well of yourself, and from such 
thoughts came your only strength.’^ 

There was a slight shade of contempt in her manner. 
Evidently the Count's character, as drawn by the 
monk, was not to her taste. As little did the descrip¬ 
tion please Theodore. His eyes flashed with anger: 
he muttered between his teeth, that Father Joseph 
should see he was not so easily managed. The gipsy 
took no notice of his emotion, but went on. 

“ They laid their plans. To-morrow is a great fes¬ 
tival in the Church. You are to be forced to attend it. 
Father Joseph is to-day to give the head magistrate 
such information regarding you, as shall induce him to 
send a party of soldiers to-morrow morning, either to 
escort you to the church, or to carry you before him to 
answer for your conduct.” 

“ To-morrow morning! Oh, Theodore, so soon!” 
cried Marie, clinging tremblingly to her husband. 

He drew himself up erect, composed. The monks 
and magistrates should see that he was not what they 
fancied him to be. He was no passive tool in their 
hands. The gipsy finished her story. 

“ I came back here at once to tell you this. I ar¬ 
rived early in the night. I lingered about the woods 



Zeena, 


121 


hoping a happy chance might have taken you, lady, to 
the night church, and that I might meet you. When 
I did not, I sought my husband, made everything ready 
to help you, and came back in the evening, hoping to 
get an opportunity to speak to you. We have done it 
well. That old man is clever. His bringing the girl 
up among you, secured you from all suspicion, and the 
noise of his saw insured my getting to the room un¬ 
heard. But the question is now, are you willing to fly 
the danger, or do you mean to yield to it 

Poor Theodore I she did not give you credit for the 
other alternative of braving and resisting it. 

Marie eagerly urged immediate flight, but Theodore 
hesitated. Again the prospect of martyrdom was be¬ 
coming alluring to him. Now was the time to shew 
his courage and constancy;—but then his wife, his 
children. Marie must be involved in his ruin; and 
their little ones should then be at the mercy of the 
priests. He could riot leave them in charge of Pro¬ 
testant friends, for by the law no Protestant could be 
a guardian. Even little Aimee’s innocent action of 
that evening was recollected as adding to the peril of 
her situation ; and this circumstance, small as it was, 
caused the balance to turn. Even if Father Joseph's 
plans for the morrow failed, Ninette might at any 
moment carry such a report of this matter as might 
cause the child to be claimed as a Catholic, and taken 
from them for ever. He could not risk it. He would 
fly, he said, if he could. 

“ 0 yes, we can; and now at once I" Marie exclaimed, 
drawing her cloak around her, and turning towards 
the door. “ Let us get away from here—all will be 
easy after that." j 




122 The Huguenot Family. 


The gipsy caught her dress. 

“ Stay, lady,” she said ; “ listen to what I propose. 
The Count de Mercoeur is now at Saintfont—is he 
not 

“ Is he ? Perhaps he is—I believe he is,” Theodore 
answered absently. His thoughts were not then with 
the Count de Mercoeur. 

“ That is a good twelve hours’ journey from this,” 
Zeena went on. “ You and the Count are very 
friendly, I know.” 

This was true. The warm-hearted old Count had 
always felt a strong interest in the young Blancards. 
He was a sincere and zealous Catholic. Warmly com¬ 
passionating Theodore and Marie for all they had suf¬ 
fered, and honestly indignant at the means used to 
convert them, it had seemed to him that the best way 
of compensating for it all, was to endeavour to con¬ 
vert them in reality, and so give them the full benefit 
of what they had undergone. With this view he had, 
for the last twelvemonth, been a frequent visitor at 
Blancard, and had, by his open-heartedness, honesty, 
and warmth of feeling, gained a high place in the 
esteem and affection of both husband and wife. Of 
all this the gipsy seemed to have been aware, and on 
this part of her plans was founded. 

“ In about an hour from this time,” she said, “ a 
courier shall bring you a letter from the Count. He 
is ill, dying, and wishes to see you before .he dies.” 

“ How do you, how can you know this ?” His tone 
was sharp and distrustful. 

“ Ah, how indeed!” she answered, with a low 
scornful laugh. His comprehension seemed so slow to 
her quick, inventive powers. “We may hope he is as 



Zeena, 


123 


well as we are at this moment. All that concerns us 
is, that you should get the letter in proper time.” 

“ But, Zeena,” Marie interposed anxiously, “ if your 
pretended courier do not wear the Mercceur livery, our 
servants might suspect something.” 

So they might. But the livery he shall wear, 
that is no such difficult business. In the Count’s ab¬ 
sence, his servants have something more pleasant to 
do than to remain at home watching his property. It 
is not difficult to get into an empty house. If one of 
his grooms cannot find his clothes the next time he 
has to ride forth, it is no matter to us. To get the 
message delivered was more difficult. My boy can 
ride against any groom in the land; but in giving a 
long message, and answering questions, his tongue 
might have betrayed him. By a lucky chance, while 
seeking you, lady, in the forest, I came to the wood¬ 
cutter’s hut, where lies hid the old man, who preaches 
in the dark night. I knew you could trust him. I 
told him all. He wrote the letter for me. You will 
get it in less than an hour. Go at once with the 
courier, and go alone. Make an excuse for leaving 
your servants behind. Trust yourself entirely to the 
boy : he is clever and true. He knows what to do, 
and how to do it. Do exactly as he bids you, and 
fear nothing. 

“And, lady,” turning to Marie, “ I have a message 
from the white-haired old man for you. He said,” 
speaking slowly, as if to recall each word, “ Tell the 
lady, my prayers and blessings go with her. Bid her 
remember, that she ‘ shall abide under the shadow 
of the Almighty,’ and that ‘ the Lord will pro¬ 
vide.”’ 




124 


The Huguenot Family, 

The words fell on her sinking heart like the cool 
dew on the burnt up, withering grass. 

“ The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom 
shall I fear?’' was her inward response. She pressed 
her husband’s arm still more closely ; but it was with 
the instinctive desire to make him share her new-found 
confidence. She no longer trembled. His support was 
no longer absolutely necessary. He started. That 
pressure recalled his thoughts to her. 

“ Marie I” he exclaimed, “ I cannot leave you be¬ 
hind—it is impossible 1” And Marie’s heart echoed 
the “ impossible.” 

“ For this night she must remain,” Zeena said de¬ 
cidedly. “ You could not all go without exciting 
suspicion. The soldiers will be here about eleven to¬ 
morrow. It would be safest that you should stay 
quietly to receive them j but perhaps you could not be 
calm enough.” 

“ Ho; I am sure I could not,” she said eagerly. 
“ At least, not unless my husband’s safety depends 
upon it.” 

“ Well, then, take the children to spend the day at 
the summer-house in the wood. I used often to see 
you there two or three years ago. From it you can 
see the chateau—can see the soldiers arrive. When 
they go away, come to me at the old quarry; but you 
must wait to see whether they are not coming to ques¬ 
tion you. If they do, you must meet them as best you 
can. If they set out at once on the road to Saintfont, 
you need lose no time, but come to me as quickly as 
possible.” And she added particular directions about 
the road from the - summer-house to the quarry, con¬ 
cluding by saying peremptorily, “Now go, you have 




Zeena. 


125 


been here too long; the time is very near for the 
courier’s arrival, and you must have much to do.” 

Much indeed! They felt that. But one moment 
they must linger to cast one last look on all they were 
going to leave for ever. There was no moon : it was 
on the wane, and did not rise till the morning; hut it 
was a bright, clear, cold night. The stars shone almost 
as if through frost; and the outline of the fine massive 
chateau was distinct against the sky. One long, lov¬ 
ing look they both gave to it, and then turned in silence 
to go down stairs. 

As they walked slowly to the house, Marie looked 
out into the darkness around, and trembled. Now she 
had her husband to lean upon, to guide her; but what 
would it be when she had to go forth alone, with two 
helpless little ones depending on her? “ The Lord 
will provide,”—“ I shall abide under the shadow of 
the Almighty.” On these words her soul rested, and 
was at peace. 




CHAPTER VIIL 


THE FLIGHT. 

was well they had little time to think—little 
time to realize their situation. At any mo¬ 
ment the courier might arrive, and there was 
much to do. 

First to settle their plans, so far as they 
could be settled, dependent as they both were 
on the will and management of others, igno¬ 
rant how, where, or when they should meet 
again. To Amsterdam they wished to go. Marie’s 
mother and sister were there; and there, she saidj' her 
father and brother would go if they ever obtained their 
freedom. 

Poor Marie I she had by that time no father; his 
health had soon given way in the loathsome dungeon » 
into which he had been thrown; but amidst all its 
horrors his spirit had held its confidence to the end. 
His hope in his God, his joy in His presence and favour, 
had burned bright and clear to the last moment. His 
death was triumphant. But of all this Marie knew 
nothing. The old man’s dead body was suffered to 
remain for a fortnight among the living sharers of his 
dungeon; and then, when a sufficient number had 
followed him to make it worth the trouble, their 
corpses were thrown out like the carcases of dogs into 
the fosse around their prison, to add to the suffering of 



The Flight. 


127 


those who survived; and no farther notice was taken 
of his death. But to return to the Blancards. 

In going to Holland, they might soon he in tolerable 
safety in Switzerland, for Blancard lay near the eastern 
frontier. Theodore arranged to wait for Marie at Ge¬ 
neva ; or, if she got there first, she must wait for him. 

“ But to leave you and the children to travel alone, 
O Marie ! how can I do it ? You who never in your 
life went half a mile except in your own coach, and 
surrounded by attendants. Marie, Marie ! I cannot. 
How can I 

Marie smiled sadly, and now for the first time told 
him of her midnight wanderings. 

“ The Lord took care of me then, dear Theodore,'^ 
she said ; “ and to Him I look to take care of us all 
now. I am not afraid; but you must take money 
with you—let us see to that. What gold have you in 
the house 

There was not much—lamentably little indeed, 
considering that it must serve not only for the journey, 
but for their maintenance in the land of their exile. 
In the beginning of the persecution, it had been pos¬ 
sible, though always difficult, to dispose of estates, and 
transmit the money to foreign countries ; but now, the 
middle of October 1685, the Edict of Nantes had just 
been revoked, and the laws against emigration had 
been made so fearfully severe, that any preparation for 
such a step must be attended with the greatest danger. 
In Theodore’s case such preparation was, of course, 
impossible at any rate. Obliged to fly at an hour’s 
notice, he could neither make arrangements himself, 
nor commission any friend to do so for him. All the 
property he could hope to secure was what he could 



128 


The Huguenot Family: 

carry on his person. Marie had some valuable jewels, 
which were better suited for the purpose than gold 
could have been, and with a beating heart, and trem¬ 
blingly alive to every sound, lest some one of the nume¬ 
rous spies might surprise her in the act, she sought out 
these jewels, and cutting open the collar, cuffs, and 
breast of his coat, she sewed up in them as much as he 
would consent to take. It was necessary to leave a 
proper proportion for herself, as they knew not when 
they should meet again. 

Marie had just completed this work, and restored her 
jewel-box to its usual place, when a loud knocking at 
the hall door announced the arrival of the expected 
messenger. She turned very pale. The painful sick¬ 
ness of terror came over her. What if the gipsy had 
been mistaken ? What if the soldiers were even now 
come ? She had been far less moved on that evening 
when her persecutors had first actually stood before 
her. It was for her husband’s life she had feared 
then. It was for his virtue she feared now. She was, 
however, the first to regain composure and presence of 
mind. 

“ We must not seem prepared,” she said, “ we must 
seem surprised. Let us summon the servants, and ask 
the cause of all this noise.” 

Before she could do so, the door opened, and the 
Count’s valet came in with a letter. 

“ From the Count de Mercoeur, Monseigneur.” 

“ From the Count de Mercoeur I Why, he is at 
Saintfont.” 

“ Yes, Madame. The courier says he has galloped 
the whole way from Saintfont to bring the letter. He 
says the Count is dying, Madame.” 




The Flight. 


129 


“ Dying! oh, I hope not and she turned to her 
husband, who had been reading the letter. 

“ I am afraid it is even so,” putting it into her hand. 
“ And I must go to him at once.” 

“ Oh, Theodore, not to-night I Surely you will not 
set out in the darkness ?” 

“ I must, my love. It would be cruel to delay 
Bead what he says.—Tell them to saddle Bayard im¬ 
mediately,” (to the servant,) “ and bring me my cloak 
and riding-boots.” 

His tone and manner were admirable,—just as hur¬ 
ried and decided as the occasion demanded. In the 
excitement of the moment all fear, all hesitation were 
gone. 

The man left the room to obey, and returned pre¬ 
sently with the cloak and boots. He was followed by 
cine of the upper servants. 

“ Whom does Monseigneur choose to attend him ?” 
he asked. 

“ Ho one. The courier will return with me.” 

Marie looked quickly up from the letter she pretended 
still to read. 

“ But, at night, dear Theodore,” she cried, “ surely 
you will never go without attendants 

“ My dear, there is not the least danger. I cannot 
wait till these fellows get ready ; and the fewer there 
are of us, the less shall we be delayed at the stations, 
where we change horses. Knocking people up in the 
middle of the night, we shall be detained long enough 
any way. But I have my sword, you know, and I can 
take pistols, too, if you like.—Get them for me, Don- 
tard,” to the valet, who was drawing on his boots. 

Marie made an exclamation. While speaking to 



130 


The Huguenot Family, 


her husband, she had purposely, though with well-acted 
carelessness, suffered the open letter to touch the flame 
of the wax candle, by whose light she had been read¬ 
ing. A corner had taken fire. She had affected not to 
perceive it till the flame scorched her fingers when, with 
a little scream, she dropped it on the table. Theodore 
and the servant both sprang forward to help her. The¬ 
odore caught the flaming sheet and threw it on the 
hearth, where a log of wood was burning. In a mo¬ 
ment the tell-tale was wholly consumed. Marie natu¬ 
rally lamented the mark on her pretty inlaid table; 
and Theodore as naturally rallied her on her careless¬ 
ness. 

And now the horse was ready. The parting words 
must be said. 0 how difficult to say them with due 
calmness, under such circumstances! Marie went with 
her husband to the head of the grand staircase. A 
little agitation was excusable, as she had shown herself 
alarmed at the prospect of the night journey. As 
Theodore crossed the hall Bernard pressed forward. 

“ You are not going alone. Monseigneur?” he asked. 

I must, good Bernard,” and he repeated his rea¬ 
sons ; not sorry to have an opportunity of doing so, 
before so many witnesses. 

“ At least suffer me to follow you early to-morrow, 
or even to-night,” the old man urged earnestly. He 
knew well what was going on, and feared he was to be 
left behind. It was a sore grief to his master and 
mistress to leave him. But they were entirely in the 
gipsy’s hands, and she had expressly stipulated, that 
no one should accompany them. Besides, his absence 
on the morrow when the soldiers came, would be as 
suspicious as his presence would be the reverse. 



The Flight. 


131 


“Notyon, my good old Bernard,’’ the Count replied, 
perhaps with more sadness than was altogether pru¬ 
dent. “ But one of the younger men had better follow 
me to Saintfont. See to it,” he turned to the steward, 
“ and send whoever will be quietest in a house of sick¬ 
ness.” 

So he was gone, and Marie must go back to her 
empty drawing-room, to realize all that had passed, to 
look forward with dread to all that was to come. 

Certainly Theodore’s part in this night’s trial was 
the lightest. There was something to his temperament 
exhilarating, in riding forth into the darkness to meet 
unknown dangers, to take his part in new and un¬ 
imagined scenes. But to sit still and inactive in the 
lonely room; to feel that her husband had left his 
home for ever; to weigh the probabilities of their 
meeting again soon, the possibility of their never meet¬ 
ing again at all; to recollect, that now her own and 
her children’s safety depended upon her energy and 
prudence; to imagine her Eugene’s present position, 
his desolation when he should hear of their departure, 
all that might be before him, and he alone without one 
relative or friend in the wide kingdom of France I Ah, 
can we not well understand the torrent of bitter feel¬ 
ings which must rush upon her soul, the strong crying 
and tears with which she would pour out her heart 
to the Lord of her salvation ? She retired to bed at 
her usual hour to escape remark. But in bed she 
could not remain. The greater part of the night was 
spent on her knees, wrestling with the unbelief of 
her sinking heart, supplicating for the blessings she 
and hers so sorely stood in need of. And not suppli¬ 
cating in vain. The Lord manifested Himself to hex 



132 


The Huguenot Famihj, 


in great love and tenderness. Very precious were tte 
words He spoke to her weary heart; and very sweet did 
she find it to lay herself down in His everlasting arms, 
to feel herself hid under the shadow of His wings. 
Her night was sleepless, hut not comfortless, and she 
rose on the morrow calm and strong for all the day’s 
trials and dangers. 

In turning over her plans on this wakeful night, 
Marie had thought with apprehension of the possi¬ 
bility of a rainy day, but even in this small matter 
was shown the lovingkindness of Him who numbers 
the very hairs of His servants’ heads. The first dawn 
showed a day as bright and fair as heart could wish ; 
a cloudless sky, glowing sunshine, soft, mild breezes, 
all summer’s pleasantness without its excessive heat. 
Marie found little difficulty in suggesting to the little 
girls the request she wished them to make, and their* 
plans were soon arranged. It would have been quite 
out of place, quite unusual to go without an atten¬ 
dant for the children. And recollecting the ruse of the 
previous evening, Marie resolved that Ninette should 
be that attendant, trusting to find a good excuse for 
sending her back. 

She hoped Marguerite might not return until after 
they had set out. But this hope was disappointed. 
Marguerite came, and was voluble in her expression of 
disapprobation. Marie tried to reason, but to reason 
Marguerite would not listen. She was, in her own words, 
“ in despair, overwhelmed with chagrin.” A whole day 
and night she had been away from her ‘‘ petites,” and 
now not to be allowed to see their happiness I She 
had always gone to their ffites hitherto,—why was she 
to be excluded now ? Marie’s only recourse was in a 



The Flight. 


133 


dignified assertion of her own right of choice, a decided 
announcement that such was her will. This subdued 
and silenced Marguerite at once. But it pained Marie 
to take this tone with one who had served her so long 
and faithfully. She could not bear to part with her 
even in seeming anger; and after the carriage was at 
the door and all ready, she went to seek the good 
bonne, and say some kind and soothing words to her. 
She found her alone in the children’s room, sitting on 
a low chair, rocking herself back and forward, and the 
large tears rolling down her withered cheeks. Marie 
laid her hand kindly on the old woman’s shoulder. 

“ Dear Marguerite,” she said, “ you must not be 
vexed, or think I do not like to have you with me. I 
have many reasons for leaving you behind me to-day; 
one is for your own sake. It would be very painful to 
you.” She stopped abruptly. She was going too far. 
Marguerite was the last person to be trusted with a 
secret. But Marguerite, with unusual quickness, finished 
the sentence for her. 

“To go there again! Ah yes, Madame I I have 
thought of all that. I see how kind and good you are. 
The last time I was there, both our boys were with us. 
Our beautiful, gallant Eugene, and baby Theodore was 
in my arms. Ah I I could not bear, I could not bear 
it!” and her tears flowed forth afresh. 

Marie felt as if she could not bear it either. She 
stooped down, kissed the old woman’s forehead, and 
hastily left the room without speaking. All morning 
she had been striving to keep down thought and feel¬ 
ing by constant occupation and bustle ; and now these 
few words had awakened a tide of recollections the 
most agitating, which had threatened to destroy all 



134 


The Huguenot Family. 


the composure she had striven so hard to gain. Her 
mind was thrown into tumult and confusion. She 
hardly knew where she was, what she did or said, and 
could no longer feel sure that she should not betray 
herself by an unguarded look or word, by an uncalled 
for agitation. But in this also she trusted herself to 
Him who had proved so kind a Father to her. “ Under 
the shadow of Thy wings, under the shadow of Thy 
wings,” she kept constantly repeating to herself, and 
she felt like a blind man led by One both loving, wise, 
and strong, knowing himself surrounded by dangers he 
could neither see nor avoid, and yet wholly at peace, 
going forward under a guidance that could not fail. 

They set out. It would have been an unspeakable 
comfort to have been allowed to lie back in the corner 
of the carriage, to shut her eyes to all that could agitate 
her, all that could awaken memory. But the little girls 
were in the highest glee, and could not keep quiet. 
There was a constant call for mamma to look at this, to 
admire that, or to remember the last time they had 
been there. And there was Ninette on the seat oppo¬ 
site her, to watch every look and tone. So Marie 
was forced to sit forward, to look around, to talk, and 
laugh in the proper place, while everything that met 
her eye sent a fresh pang of recollection and regret to 
her heart. 

Although the summer-house looked so near the 
chateau, they took a full hour to go by the carriage 
road, as they had to take a long round to get to a 
bridge over the river. To Marie the hour seemed three. 
And it was with a feeling of relief almost amounting 
to joy that she saw the last long hill rise before them, 
and heard Hortense point out the first peep of the 




The Flight. 


135 


summer-house to Aimee, who had almost forgotten it. 
Now Ninette must he dismissed. The children spoke 
of what flowers they might expect to find so late in the 
season. A sudden thought seemed to he suggested to 
their mother by the words. 

“ Ah, how stupid I am !'’ she exclaimed. “ I told 
Guillaume to begin that new flower-bed to-day, and 
forgot to send a counter-order when we resolved to 
come here. He will certainly make some blunder 
about it, when there is no one to direct him. Ninette, 
I think I shall send you back in the carriage to re¬ 
mind him that I wish the bed to be oval; and I 
wish you would watch him a little all day, while he is 
about it. Your eye is very good, but his is not. It 
must be a long oval. But above all things see that he 
does not make sharp points at the ends. One so often 
sees these long narrow beds ending in absurd little 
beaks like a bird’s. The ends must above all things 
have a pretty curve. Make him stake out the ground, 
and then pass a cord round the stakes so that you can 
judge. And do not suffer him to put in a spade till 
you are quite satisfied. I have great confidence in 
your taste.” 

She spoke so rapidly and eagerly that Ninette was 
completely blinded. Flattered by the compliments to 
her taste, pleased at the prospect of a day’s flirtation 
with the handsome Guillaume, she gladly accepted the 
task intrusted to her. She was afraid, she said, that 
Madame might be fatigued attending to the little 
ladies. But she very readily yielded to Marie’s as¬ 
surance that she should not, and that to have her 
new flower-bed spoiled would be far more annoying. 
Ninette should unpack the basket they had brought. 



136 


The Huguenot Family. 


ste said, and arrange their dinner on the summer-house 
table before she went away, and either she or Marguerite 
might come back with the carriage in the afternoon, 
and pack up the remnants of the feast. 

The gipsy had said that the soldiers would arrive 
about eleven o’clock ; and Marie had so timed her own 
departure as to insure that Ninette should not return 
to the chateau until they had again left it. It was 
now nearly half-past eleven. And while the servants 
and children were busy unpacking and arranging the 
provisions, Marie walked forward to the top of the 
bank opposite the chateau. From this point she could 
see all that was going on there. At first everything 
was still and quiet. But even while she looked, she 
saw the glitter of arms through the trees, and presently 
an ofScer in full uniform, followed by three soldiers, 
rode up to the entrance. Again a momentary sickness 
of great fear. But again it was subdued. One glance 
up into the blue sky, as if seeking to see the throne of 
her loving, caring Father, one more whisper of the 
words, “ Under the shadow of Thy wings. Lord,” and 
she was calm. She waited a moment to feel sure of 
herself, and then called Ninette to her side. 

“ Can you see who these are ?” she asked, pointing 
to the soldiers. 

“ Soldiers, Madame !” the girl exclaimed. And 
Marie felt, even more than she saw, the keen black eyes 
were fixed upon her. 

“ I thought so,” she said calmly. “ A travelling 
party come to seek quarters, I suppose.” 

This was a favourite mode of annoyance to Hugue¬ 
nots, and one from which Theodore had several times 
suffered on her account during the last twelvemonth. 



137 



The Flight. 


“ It is a singular time of day to come on sucli an 
errand/^ slie added. “ One would think they might 
as well gone a little farther before night. How¬ 
ever, it is of no consequence. I do not intend to disturb 
myself for them. The steward knows what to do, and 
he can send'for me if it be necessary. Bring me my 
book, Ninette, and one of the chairs from the summer¬ 
house. I shall sit here so long as the sun will permit.’^ 

The position was in full sight of the chateau. She 
believed that she had been observed looking at the 
soldiers, and thought that to assume so unconcerned a 
posture immediately after the discovery, might be con¬ 
strued into a sign of innocence. 

Nor was she mistaken. The officer’s suspicions had 
been aroused on learning that both the lord and lady of 
the chMeau were gone. But the account the servants 
gave was so straightforward and probable, and as told 
by Catholic spies was so deserving of credit, it seemed 
so unlikely that the Countess would choose Ninette to 
accompany her, were flight contemplated, that his doubts 
were greatly shaken. And when he saw Marie first 
stand looking at himself and his party, and then quietly 
seat herself to read in perfect unconcern, these doubts 
vanished altogether. He abandoned his half-formed 
plan of going to question her, searched the house with¬ 
out finding the least suspicious circumstance, and then 
with another long gaze at Marie’s comfortably reclin¬ 
ing figure, set out for Saintfont. 

Marie’s heart rose in gratitude to God for this, and 
she felt greatly strengthened for what was before her. 
Ninette came to report that all was arranged in the 
summer-house. Marie desired her to move the seat 
more into the shade, (it was placed quite out of sight 

K 




The Huguenot Family. 


138 

this time,) gave orders to the men-servants about the 
return of the carriage, repeated her minute directions 
about the flower-bed; and they left her alone. 

She immediately summoned the children to her side, 
and, as gently as she could, told them their present 
position and future prospects. They were bewildered 
and frightened. Aimee exclaimed passionately against 
the wicked men who drove them from their home, and 
wished herself a man that she might kill them all. 
Hortense, timid and gentle, did not speak, but she 
turned deadly pale, and trembling from head to foot, 
clung convulsively to her mother. 

Marie tried to soothe and calm them. Aimee she 
reminded of the truth that no man could do anything 
against them unless God so pleased. And to Hortense 
she spoke of the love and care of her Father in heaven, 
and of His constant watchfulness over them all. 

“And where are we to go now, mamma?” they 
asked. 

“ To the gipsy’s camp first.” 

Hortense shuddered, and hid her face on her mother’s 
shoulder. Marie put her arm tenderly round her. 

“My darling,” she said, “do you not think the 
Lord will be with us in the gipsy’s camp as well as in 
the chateau? You love the Lord Jesus, Hortense, who 
has loved you, and died for you ?” 

“Ah, yes ! mamma,” raising her pale face, and look¬ 
ing up with an earnest devout expression. 

“ Then, dear Hortense, you will try to trust Him, to 
feel sure that He loves you and cares for you. It grieves 
Him when He sees the children He so tenderly loves 
iifraid, as if He were not with them, or did not care for 
their safety. And He does not like that they should 



The Flight. 


139 


miirmiir a'bout tlie sorrows He sends upon them. My 
Hortense will he brave and patient, will she not 
“Yes, mamma,’' was the faint whisper, and she 
dashed away her tears, and obeyed Marie’s directions 
to sit down with Aimee, and eat some of the food they 
had so gaily spread out so short a time before. 

Marie could not eat, but she pressed the children to 
do so. And she filled the large pockets, then worn, 
with cakes, dried fruit, and biscuits for their use. 

When they had finished the meal, she knelt down 
with them and prayed for God’s blessing and protection, 
for His Holy Spirit to make them trust Him wholly, 
and submit to His will, and then, without venturing 
another look, she turned her back upon her pleasant 
nome, and fled away into the heart of the woods with 
a child in either hand. 



i. 




CHAPTER IX. 

THE gipsy’s cave. 


f EENA tad given ter full directions atont the 
road ste must take; Marie tad listened at¬ 
tentively, and tad believed ste understood 
V ttem perfectly, but tte wood was thick and 
* tangled, tte paths many and devious. Her 
thoughts were occupied cheering and encou¬ 
raging the trembling little ones clinging to 
her. She took the left turn when it should have been 
the right—^the right instead of the left—soon lost all 
the landmarks she had been told to look for, and found 
herself going blindly, desperately forward, now on a 
narrow footpath, and again making her way through 
the very thickest of the wood, without the least sign to 
direct her steps, or to inform her where she was. 

On, on they went, tearing their dress and wounding 
themselves upon the tangled brushwood. Strength soon 
failed to all three—their limbs trembled with wearied- 
ness, their sight grew confused and dim. Hortense 
bore up bravely, remembering Marie's words, that mur¬ 
muring grieved her loving Father in heaven; but poor 
little Aimee wept and lamented unceasingly, and her 
cries growing ever weaker and weaker, wrung the poor 
mother's heart, already so sorely wounded. 

Still did she carry with her the consciousness of her 


The Gipsy's Cam. 


141 


Father’s presence and guidance—still half unconscious¬ 
ly did she repeat the words, “ Under the shadow of Thy 
wings, 0 Lord, under the shadow of Thy wings and 
Hortense, catching the precious meaning, echoed them 
again and again, “ Under the shadow of Thy wings, of 
Thy wings, 0 Lord.’’ 

Thus they went on for three or four hours, often sit¬ 
ting down to rest, then rising and toiling on again, now 
turning to one hand and now to another, with only one 
distinct aim, that of keeping within the concealment of 
the woods. At last their strength was completely ex¬ 
hausted—they could go no farther ; and to what end 
go farther, Marie asked herself, when she knew not hut 
what each step took her farther from the quarry she 
wished to gain, nearer the chateau she wished to avoid. 
They had been for some time pursuing a path which 
led up a pretty steep hill, and now Marie saw before 
her a steadily increasing light through the trees. She 
resolved to press on to it, believing that it must be the 
limit of the wood in that direction. 

She was not mistaken, and coming out from among 
the trees, she found herself on a level plateau at the 
summit of the hill. The other side was precipitous, 
and bare of trees, so that a wide expanse of country lay 
before her. She recognised several spots, but so igno¬ 
rant was she of the geography of her husband’s pro¬ 
perty, that the recognition was of little use. In those 
days it was not the fashion for high-born ladies to be 
much out of doors—the greater part of their life was 
spent in their drawing-room. Marie had always liked 
to saunter about her flower-garden and terraces with 
her husband and children, but she had seldom cared to 
go farther. For this reason she had been often pre- 



142 


The Huguenot Family, 


vented from attending tiie conventicles in which she 
delighted. She could only go when they were held 
in places which happened to he well known to her. 
As she stood on the brow of the hill she recollected 
having observed it with its curious crown of trees ; 
hut she had never thought of calculating its position 
relative to the chateau, and now when she tried tc 
do so, she had no data to work from, while her ex¬ 
haustion was so great that the effort to think continu¬ 
ously was painful, almost impossible. After one or two 
bewildering attempts, she gave it up, and determined 
to seek rest, as being at present the most necessary and 
the only available good. 

She drew back a little among the trees, and sat 
down with her children on a fallen trunk. She gave 
the children some of the cakes she had brought, and 
they afforded them amusement, occupation, and refresh¬ 
ment—but refreshment for Marie there was none. Her 
head ached and throbbed most painfully, her eyeballs 
felt burning, her lips were parched, and so great was 
her fatigue, that even while she sat still, her knees 
shook with an incessant distressing tremor, and now for 
the first time she lost the quiet resting spirit which had 
hitherto sustained her. She tried to repeat her favourite 
words, but her mind was too thoroughly exhausted to 
be able to realize their meaning or feel their force. She 
was sensible of no great grief or fear, only a dull dead 
weight of apprehension, which was more trying than 
more acute sorrow could have been. 

She had sat thus for a long time—the children had 
discussed their biscuits, and, leaning against her, had 
nearly fallen asleep, when they were all startled by a 
noise behind them. Nearer and nearer it came—it 



The Gipsy's Cave. 


143 


was certainly a man’s footstep. “ We are discovered,” 
thouglit Marie. “ Lord, Thy will be done I” and clasp¬ 
ing her children tighter in her arms, she meekly bowed 
her head, and waited to feel the dreaded grasp on her 
shoulder. 

An exclamation from Hortense made her look round, 
and Bernard was before her. She started up with an 
exclamation of joy—hope and energy returned. 

“ Where did you come from, Bernard ?” she cried; 

how did you find us ?” 

He would have explained, but he was closely followed 
by Zeena, who interposed. 

“No talking, no delay,” she said authoritatively; “ if 
you value your lives, follow me at once without a 
word ;” and she turned and strode down the hill by the 
path up which Marie had so painfully toiled. 

“ I cannot go farther,” pouted little Aimee, “ I am 
so tired.” 

“ In my arms you can, little one,” said Bernard’s 
cheery voice, as he raised her and placed her on one 
arm, while he held out the other hand to Hortense. He 
stood back to allow Marie to pass, and they set out. 

A little way down the hill the gipsy stood waiting 
for them. 

“ We must make our way through here,” pointing 
into the wood.—“ Take care,” to Bernard, “ that the 
same thing does not happen again. Lady, wrap your¬ 
self in my cloak,” giving it to her. 

Bernard set down Aimee for a moment, and taking 
off his upper coat, wrapped it round Hortense, explain¬ 
ing to Marie that he and the gipsy had easily traced 
her by the fragments of dress left on the bushes. He 
took up Aimee again ; the gipsy turned into the wood, 



144 


The Huguenot Family. 


and went on at a pace nearly as rapid as if no impedi¬ 
ment stood in her wa^y, dashing aside the branches, 
crashing through the underwood, and trampling down 
the long tangled grass as if she trode on a smooth level 
lawn. To Marie and Hortense this passage was terribly 
fatiguing—Bernard gave them what assistance he could, 
but with Aimee in his arms that was not much. 

Poor patient Hortense toiled on without complaint, 
but he felt her staggering painfully ; and at last as they 
came out on a narrow footpath, she fell against him. 
He looked down into her pale face and saw that she 
was nearly fainting from mere fatigue. All Marie’s 
own weariedness was forgotten in anxiety for her 
child. 

“ I can carry her,” she said. 

“ Ho, Madame, you cannot, indeed you cannot—try 
to lift her into my arms.” 

But at that moment Zeena returned, impatient at 
their delay. Comprehending at a glance the state of 
matters, she caught up Hortense, and saying, ‘‘ Bernard, 
you know the way,” was out of sight in an instant. 

“We are near the place now, dear Madame,” said 
Bernard cheerily; “ you know this road, do you not ?” 

Marie looked round, and recognised the path by 
which she had gone to the quarry the first time she had 
seen Zeena. Eenewed hope carried her a little farther, 
then her steps began again to falter. Bernard made 
her lean upon him—a little farther, and he was forced 
to put his arm round her—a little farther, and strength 
failed altogether. 

“ Thank God, there is the gipsy!” he cried, as he 
looked anxiously up the path, “ no, it is my master I” 
and in a moment Theodore was at Marie’s side. 



The Gipsy's Cave. 


145 


He took her in his arms. She was too completely 
exhausted to feel even surprise. There was only a 
delightful sense of relief to both body and mind as she 
lay in his arms with her own clasped round his neck, 
A few paces brought them to the quarry. They passed 
round a projecting corner to a low arch in the rock. 
Marie had closed her eyes, and was only dreamily con¬ 
scious of what happened. Some one said, “ Give her 
to me, Count, you cannot come in here with her in 
your arms.'' She was transferred to other hands, car¬ 
ried along a narrow, winding, and in some places very 
low-roofed passage, into a wide room, where she was 
placed on a bench cut out of the rock. Her husband 
was close behind her. He sat down by her side, and 
taking her again in his arms, laying her head on his 
breast, seemed unable to express the joy of his heart. 

Marie roused herself to return his caresses, and to 
look around. She was in a large irregularly-shaped 
cave, whose roof was so lofty her eye could not catch 
it in the dim light. A fire burned on the ground, and 
near it on a sheep-skin lay her own Hortense fast asleep. 
Bernard was just coming out of the narrow passage by 
which they had entered. Zeena was going busily back 
and forward between a dark corner of the cave and a 
pot which hung over the fire. Her husband, who had 
brought Marie in, and had gone back to close and con¬ 
ceal the entrance, returned and threw himself on the 
ground beside the fire, looking gloomy and anxious. 
It was all like a dream, except the close pressure of 
Theodore's arms round her, his warm kisses on her 
forehead. 

She could have been content to lie thus upon her 
husband's breast, without moving or speaking. But 



146 The Huguenot Family. 


Theodore was anxious to hear all that had happened 
to her since they parted, and in answering his questions 
her own curiosity was aroused. Memory returned, and 
with it surprise—surprise to see him there, and to see 
him in his strange gipsy garb. 

“Youdid not go to Saintfont, then?’’ she said. 

“ No; it was never intended I should. Our good 
friends had planned otherwise, and wisely planned. 
My courier led me only a little beyond our own gates 
to where his brother awaited us. With him I changed 
dress. He mounted my horse, and rode off to Saint- 
font. I came here. Here I have been all last night 
and to-day. The pretended Count, and pretended 
courier, have meanwhile, as we hope, been acting as 
lures to draw the soldiers the whole way to Saintfont, 
and leave the coast clear for our escape. A little after 
mid-day we heard from a scout that the party were 
fairly off, and we only waited your arrival to set out. 
But hours passed, and you did not come. I was im¬ 
prisoned here alone, restless, and miserably anxious. 
Zeena went backwards and forwards watching for you. 

Dibon was at the hamlet making arrangements-” 

he stopped abruptly, gulped down his words, and, with 
an involuntary glance at his sleeping children, went on 
hurriedly,—“ At last Bernard came. He had gone to 
the summer-house so soon as the soldiers left the chateau, 
and, not finding you there, came on here. Zeena re¬ 
turned with him to the summer-house, and traced you 
from thence, I know not how.” 

Zeena now approached, bearing a large old-fashioned 
flagon, filled with some steaming liquid. 

“ Lady,” she said, “ you must rest, not speak. 
Already your eye is brighter than when you came in. 



The Gipsy's Cave. 


147 


If you suffer the first drowsiness to pass, fever will come 
on, you will be unable to sleep, and sleep you must 
have. Drink this. It will both soothe and revive 
you.’^ 

Marie took it gladly, for her mouth and throat were 
parched with thirst. It was a decoction of bitter herbs, 
not very pleasant to the taste. But she found, as the gipsy 
had said, that it both invigorated her weary body, and 
soothed her irritated nerves. When she had drunk it, 
Zeena led her to where a bed had been prepared for 
her, of dried moss, grass, and leaves, covered with sheep¬ 
skins. It felt deliciously soft to poor Marie’s aching 
limbs. Theodore sat down beside her, and in a few 
minutes she was asleep. 




CHAPTER X. 


THE PAETINa. 

f iE slept long and heavily. When she awoke, 
her husband was no longer by her side. She 
. raised herself and looked round, but could not 
see him. The children still lay sleeping near 
the fire. Bernard sat beside them, his head lean¬ 
ing upon his hand, apparently in deep thought. 
Zeena’s figure was now visible in the light, 
now lost in the darkness, as she stept busily 
to and fro about her own occupations. But no Theo¬ 
dore, no Dibon, were to be seen. A little alarmed, she 
called her husband by name. Bernard started, rose 
instantly, and came to her. 

Where is your master?” she asked in a low, 
agitated voice. 

Bernard hesitated. He seemed unwilling to speak. 
“Speak, Bernard. Oh, tell me the worst I” she 
cried, starting up. “ He is not—Is he P-^Has he been 
taken prisoner ?” 

“ Ho, no, Madame ; it is only-” again he stopped, 

and looked around as if for help to say what must be 
said. Such a help was Zeena, who now came to them. 

“Lady,” she said, with unusual gentleness, “it 
grieved Zeena much to part you from him on whom 
your heart rests.” 

“ To part us ! Oh, surely not, Zeena. Oh, surely 



The Parting. 149 

we might travel together T' she exclaimed, in great 
distress. 

Lady, it could not he. For his sake, for all our 
sakes, it could not he,” the gipsy answered compas¬ 
sionately. 

Marie made no remonstrance. But she howed her 
head upon her knees with an expression of deep, yet 
submissive grief, most touching to see. The gipsy 
seemed much moved. 

“ Lady,” she said with great earnestness, “ oh, be¬ 
lieve Zeena, this should never have been, could Zeena 
have helped it.” 

‘‘ I do believe you, good kind friend—I should be 
most ungrateful if I did not,” Marie answered, looking 
up and trying to speak calmly. 

Zeena explained the reasons which had governed their 
plans. At that time the lately-passed laws against 
emigration were in all the vigour of novelty. The search 
for emigrants was very strict. One or two well-known 
instances had lately occurred of escapes effected under 
the disguise of just such a travelling party as their 
own. They must lay their account with being stopped 
and examined—they must be very careful not to awa¬ 
ken suspicion. Zeena’s party, when she had passed 

through the town of-two days before, had consisted 

of herself, her sick boy, and Michaut. It was necessary 
to limit the party who should leave that neighbourhood 
to the same number. Dibon had spoken openly to his 
friends in the hamlet of his intention of going in another 
direction with his other boy. In such times, the least 
change of plan might awaken suspicion. Then in the 
event of an encounter with the gendarmes, the pre¬ 
sence of the husband might agitate the wife, or that of 



150 


The Huguenot Family. 


the wife the husband. There was a better chance of 
composure and presence of mind where the safety of 
each was alone concerned. 

“ But my children/’ Marie exclaimed, as the full 
import of this explanation flashed on her mind—“ my 
children—they must go with me.” 

Zeena did not answer; it was hard for one mother 
to inflict such a wound on another mother’s heart. 
Marie threw herself on her knees before her, and 
clasped her hands in agonized supplication. 

“ Zeena, Zeena!” she cried, “you cannot, yon do 
not mean to take my children from me—you yourself 
are a mother. Oh, say you cannot be so cruel I” 

Zeena turned away—Bernard spoke for her. 

“ Dear Madame, one can go with you, but not both. 
One can be hid in the cart beside the lame boy; but 
for their sakes as well as for your own, you must part 
with one.” 

“ Bernard, Bernard, how can I?” she cried, hardly 
able to speak the words—“ How can I leave either be¬ 
hind?—I cannot. Oh, you must feel I cannot.” 

“ Not leave her behind, dear Madame ?” he said 
eagerly; “ why, we shall be in Holland before you.” 

“ We!” she repeated ; “ do you go, Bernard ?” 

“ Ah, Madame, you surely did not think I could stay 
behind. Give one of the little ones to me, and I shall 
answer for her safety with my life,” and seeing her 
jnore calm, he gently raised her from the ground and 
seated her on the bed. He then detailed their plans. 

In her first eagerness to assist Marie’s escape, the 
gipsy had forgotten about the children; and when she 
did remember, she was at a great loss what to do with 
them. Dibon had said peremptorily that they could 



The Parting. 


151 


not go; but Zeena could not so easily resolve, as sbo 
said, to break tbe motber’s heart. One she could pro¬ 
vide for, and it was making arrangements for the other 
that had detained Dibon most of the day at the village. 
Knowing the circumstances of every family in the neigh¬ 
bourhood, he had early learned that Pierre Lajou and 
his family were intending to emigrate. To them he 
went, awoke their fears by telling them of the visit of 
the soldiers to the chateau, convinced them they should 
set out at once, and easily persuaded them to take 
charge of one of the little girls. Bernard's resolution 
to accompany her made the plan all the more advanta¬ 
geous. In truth, Pierre’s journey was likely to be far 
less hazardous than that of the Count and Countess. 
In his humble rank lay one security, and he proposed 
to find his way straight to the Swiss frontier, while it 
was for many reasons thought best that the Blancards 
should traverse the greater part of France, and sail 
from Eouen either for England or Holland, as circum¬ 
stances might serve. 

Bernard and the gipsy vied with each other in de¬ 
tailing and dwelling upon all these advantages, in order 
to reconcile Marie to parting with her child. But no 
argument reached her heart, or comforted her, as did 
the one she kept constantly repeating to herself, “ It is 
Thy will, 0 Lord, and Thou lovest me.” While they 
reasoned, she prayed—prayed earnestly for submission 
to her heavenly Father’s will, and for His protection 
for her child. 

Hortense turned in her sleep, and awoke herself. She 
sat up a little, and looked round bewildered. Marie 
went to her. The child gave a low cry of joy, threw 
her arms round her mother’s neck, and clung to her 



152 


The Huguenot Family, 


friglitened, trembling. Ab, bow did tbe clasp of those 
little arms go to Marie’s heart! What might her child 
be called to suffer when she should have no mother to 
cling to ? She raised her gently so as not to awakeji 
Aimee, carried her to the bench, and sat down with 
her in her lap. Hortense seemed afraid to look round, 
keeping her face hid on her mother’s shoulder, and 
trembling violently. 

“ Why does my darling tremble so ?” Marie said, 
bending tenderly over her; “of what are you afraid, 
my dear Hortense ?” 

“ It is so dark, mamma, so strange.” 

“ And has my Hortense forgotten that God is with 
us in this dark strange place ?” 

“ Ah, I remember now,—I am not afraid now,” and 
she sat up and looked round. “ Mamma, as we came 
here when I was weary, oh, so weary, I remembered the 
verse you once taught me, ‘ Even there shall Thy hand 
lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me,’ and I 
thought that God was holding me that I should not 
fall; I cannot be afraid while God is with me.” 

“ And even if God were to take you away from me, 
my Hortense—” her voice was so agitated that the 
child took alarm and interrupted her. 

» “ You are not going to leave me, mamma ? 0 no, 
you cannot leave me.” 

“ Hot for all the world would I do it, if I could help 
it, dearest; but it would be dangerous for you, for me, 
for us all, that we should go together. Hortense, dar¬ 
ling, do not cry so, do not tremble so. Ah, Hortense, 
you will break my heart—I cannot bear it.” 

The little girl tried to check her sobs and tears, when 
she saw how greatly they distressed her mother. 



The Parting, 


153 


“ But to leave me with that dark woman, oh, 
mamma!” and she shuddered violently. 

“No, dear, no I You are to go with Bernard, and it 
is only for the journey. Soon, very soon, if it please 
God, we shall all meet in Holland, where we shall be 
safe—where no wicked men can torment us.” 

This was at least better than she had feared; and 
while Marie went on to describe the joy of their meet¬ 
ing, the delight of grandmamma and Aunt Pauline— 
when they should see Hortense, and should hear that 
mamma, papa, and Aimee were following her, she lis¬ 
tened quietly, seemed a little comforted, and even began 
once or twice to smile. But the thought of parting 
with her mother came back, again the lip quivered, and 
with a fresh burst of tears she sobbed out, “ But to go 
without you, mamma, oh I it is so hard.” 

Marie’s heart echoed the “ so hard.” She felt in great 
doubt about the propriety of sending such a timid, sen¬ 
sitive child from her. Might not the bold, high-spirited 
Aimee miss her less ? but then Aimee was so young, 
so thoughtless ; she required all a mother’s care and 
watchfulness. She had less sense, and although she 
spoke so prettily about God’s care, and really felt what 
she said, she had less steady religious principle than 
her elder sister. It was to Hortense’s principle Marie 
now appealed. 

“ It is God who has ordered our way, dear Hortense,” 
she whispered, bending down and resting her head on 
the child’s cheek, “ shall we say that anything is too 
hard that He sends ? Ah, Hortense, Jesus Christ did 
not think it too hard to die on the cross for us. If He 
so loved us, do you think He will send us one little 
sorrow more than is necessary ?” 

L 



154 


The Huguenot Family. 


“ No, mamma,” she answered instantly, “ I will not 
say it is hard again ; I will go when you please, and 
Jesus Christ will comfort me when I have not you— 
when I cannot tell you everything, I can tell Him, and 
He will feel sorry for me when I am sorry, and glad 
when I am glad. I will go away, mamma, whenever 
you like, and Jesus Christ will go with me. I shall 
not he afraid, I am sure I shall not. When must I 
go?” 

Marie applied to Bernard for an answer to this ques¬ 
tion. “ As soon as possible,” he said; “ Lajou only 
waited for them, the sooner they set out the better. 
They should be the farther off before the soldiers re¬ 
turned from Saintfont. Madame’s flight must be known 
at the chateau before this, and any delay only increased 
their danger.” 

Zeena had taken her goblet from the fire, and had 
emptied its contents into a large wooden platter, and 
she now invited them to partake of a strange-looking, 
but by no means unpalatable stew of meat and vege¬ 
tables, thickened with coarse bread. 

The meal was sad and silent. So soon as it was 
concluded, Marie made a sign to Bernard to take Hor- 
tense away. She wished to shorten the parting scene 
for all their sakes. Hortense sprang into her mother's 
arms. Sh§ did not speak—she shed no tear, but she 
covered her mother's face, neck, and hands with pas¬ 
sionate kisses. 

“ God bless my darling, and take care of her!” prayed 
Marie fervently. 

“ And Eugene too, mammal poor Eugene is all 
alone.” 

Marie’s heart leaped wildly at the words j the agony 



The Parting. 


155 


they gave her was almost more than she could bear. 
She paused for an instant to quiet herself with the 
thought, “It is Thy will, 0 Lord, and Thou lovest 
us,'’ and then said in a low hut calm voice, “ God bless 
my Eugene, and make him feel that the Lord himself 
is with him." 

She gave Hortense the last, long kiss, and placed 
her in Bernard’s arms. She had not thought of bring¬ 
ing any warm clothing with her. And, indeed, she 
could not well have done so, if she had thought of it. 
The gipsy brought out a curious nondescript garment 
of dark cloth, something between a cloak and a blanket, 
and wrapped the child in it. 

“ Now, Bernard," she said quietly, “ laying her head 
on his shoulder, that she might not see her mother’s 
face again, “ now, Bernard, I am ready." 

And they went forth. Marie felt strangely calm. 
She realized God’s presence and care of her, as she had 
never done before, much as she had often enjoyed of 
that realization. Even of Eugene she could think 
calmly, and could feel that God’s love for him was far 
more tender than her own, and that she could leave him 
in His hands with perfect confidence. God’s people in 
those days possessed a wondrous power of realizing the 
great truths of their religion. Brought up amid dan¬ 
gers and difficulties, in which their own wisdom was as 
folly, their own strength as weakness, they learned to rest 
on God with a steady childlike faith of which we know 
too little. One could hardly call it faith. It was more 
like sight. They really seemed to hear God’s voice, 
to feel His arm around them, to see His eye of love 
watching over them. As Marie sat for a few minutes 
after Hortense was gone, lifting up her heart to God, 



156 


The Huguenot Family, 


and pouring out its every thought and feeling to Him, 
her whole soul swelled with rapture, as she felt that 
He heard every faint whisper, that her own lot, and the 
lot of all she loved, was in His power, and that His 
everlasting arms were around them all. She felt her¬ 
self resting upon her Saviour’s bosom, and she felt, in 
her inmost soul, the love and tenderness with which 
He regarded her. 





CHAPTER XI. 


THE NIGHT JOUENEY. 

.L this time Aimee was fast asleep. They had 
been careful not to arouse her, lest her grief 
at the parting might increase that of her 
mother and sister. But now it was necessary 
to awaken her, and get ready for their journey. 
She was a fearless, independent little thing, 
and shewed much less alarm at finding herself 
in a strange place than Hortense had done. And al¬ 
though she did shed a few tears on learning that her 
sister was not to go with them, the novelty of her situ¬ 
ation soon distracted her thoughts, and amused her. 

While she ate her supper, Marie exchanged her dress 
for one of Michaut\s, which Zeena had provided for her. 
The gipsy stained her face and arms, and even her feet 
and ankles ; for, of course, Michaut wore no stockings. 
He, indeed, went barefoot. But as an exact imitation 
in this respect must have impaired Marie’s walking 
powers, Zeena had provided a pair of sandals which 
protected her feet from the hard rough roads, and at 
the same time gave her muscles more freedom than her 
own shoes could have done. Her long hair was cut, 
and a bright scarlet handkerchief bound round her 
head, much to Aimee’s admiration, who declared that 
mamma was “ un tres joli garcon.” Some of her 



158 


The Huguenot Family. 


clothes Zeena tore into fragments, and burned in the fire, 
along with her hair. Others, which would have taken 
too long to burn, she buried in the rough ground outside. 
It was, at least, possible, she said, that the entrance to 
the cave might be discovered, and, in that case, it might 
be dangerous that any trace of its late guests should be 
visible. When all was ready, Aimee was wrapt in the 
gipsy’s cloak, and bound upon her back. Zeena dis¬ 
persed the few remaining embers of the fire, and they 
set out. Zeena went first through the dark passage, 
making Marie hold by her dress. When they got out, 
she replaced carefully the brushwood, leaves, and turf 
which filled the mouth of the entrance, rolled a large 
stone before it, piling upon it a fresh supply of withered 
branches; and then, satisfied that all was well concealed, 
led the way into the dark and silent wood. 

The first part of the journey was the most danger¬ 
ous, both on account of Aimee’s being with them, and 
because the servants from the chateau might be ex¬ 
pected to be abroad seeking their mistress. Anxious 
to shorten, as much as possible, the long ten miles’ 
walk, Zeena took a short cut through the fields, which 
led them across the high-road, near the very gate of 
the chateau. Marie, in the dark, knew not where she 
was, and went quietly on after the gipsy, until just as 
they were drawing near the high-road, she saw her 
guide pause suddenly and listen. Marie’s heart beat 
so loudly, she could at first hear nothing else ; but 
after a few seconds the sound of a horse’s feet were 
audible in the distance, and looking more carefully 
round, she could distinguish, a few paces before them, 
the roof of her own porter’s lodge. The sound came 
nearer. It was a horse coming down the avenue. 



The Night Journey. 


159 


Tlie gipsy listened attentively, then throwing back 
her head with an air of relief, she whispered, “ It is 
an inexperienced rider. He will keep the high-road, 
that is very certain,” and drawing Marie behind a high 
bush, she quietly awaited his approach. They heard 
the porter come out to open the gates. They were so 
near, they heard every word that was said. 

“ Where are you going, Maitre Simon, at this time 
of night ?” 

“ Do you not know, that our lady has escaped with 
the children ?” answered a pompous voice, which Marie 
recognised as belonging to the steward. 

“ Ah yes ! the coachman stopped, as he passed back 
with the empty coach, and told us he had gone for the 
lady to the summer-house, and she was not there.” 

“ And the fool waited nearly two hours, thinking 
she had only gone a little way into the wood, and 
would come back when she wished to return home. So 
it was dark before we heard anything of it. I sent to 
tell the reverend superior at Lamont. All the monks 
were engaged at a religious ceremony, and he only 
came to us a few minutes ago, and has sent us all rid¬ 
ing over the country to carry the alarm. I am not 
used to riding, and this horse starts so at everything in 
the dark. So, so, then, good fellow, fine horse—quiet 
now, be quiet, good fellow. Do just lead him through 
the gate, will you ?” 

“ And where do you go?” the other asked, as he 
obeyed his request. But the worthy steward was too 
deeply engrossed with his horse to heed the question. 
There was a sound of shuffling and snorting on the 
one side, and vigorous patting and good-following on 
the other; and then horse and man set off at a brisk 




160 The Huguenot Family. 

pace along the high-road, and were soon out of hear¬ 
ing. 

“ It might have been as -well if we had heard where he 
was going,” muttered the gipsy. “However, it matters 
little. We can surely get the better of a fool like him. 
Come, lady, the porter is so busy telling his wife the 
news, we shall be able to cross the high-road un¬ 
noticed.” 

They did so, and plunged again into the shade of thick 
woods. On they went through the dark night. Marie 
could not see half-a-dozen yards before her, and never 
knew where she was. But she felt a strange pleasure 
in thus going on in the darkness, feeling that the Lord 
Himself was leading her, and that her every step was 
known to Him, was taken under His care and guid¬ 
ance. To realize that strange and unknown dangers 
might be close to her on every side, and yet to know 
that His arm shielded her, and to feel perfect satisfac¬ 
tion in the thought that the Lord God omnipotent did 
reign,—this was to Marie a source of the sweetest, most 
restful peace. 

It was early morning before they reached their des¬ 
tination, and the moon was sending forth her soft light 
to guide them on their way. Marie’s limbs ached with 
the unwonted exercise, but still she held on courage¬ 
ously and steadily. The gipsy had just told her, that 
they were very near rest now, when she stopped sud¬ 
denly, and listened. Marie had only heard a low 
chirping as of young birds, whose mother was return¬ 
ing to her nest. But Zeena knew better than Marie, 
that there were ho young birds in nests at that time of 
year. And she awaited a repetition of the sound. It 
came from some trees in front of them. The gipsy 



The Night Journey. 


161 


bade Marie stand still, and went forward to the trees. 
Marie heard the faintest possible whisper, and the 
gipsy returned to her side, 

“ Here, lady,’' she said, in a very low voice, we 
must turn aside through the wood. Take care to make 
no noise, not to break the branches, to leave no trace 
of our passage." 

They went a little way slowly and cautiously, then 
the gipsy again left Marie in a very thick, dark part 
of the wood, telling her to stand quite still, and pro¬ 
mising to return in less than five minutes. It might 
be only five minutes, but it seemed much longer to 
Marie, standing there alone, and still ignorant, as she 
was, what danger threatened. Still, as she leant her 
weary body against a tree, her heart rose in gratitude, 
and even in joy, to the Lord, who was so graciously 
making her soul to rest quietly in His care. 

When Zeena returned, she took Marie's hand, and 
led her through the remaining part of the wood, out 
upon a narrow piece of green sward, lying bright in 
the moonshine. Then Marie saw that they stood above 
the high precipitous bank of a river, and that Zeena 
no longer carried Aimee. 

“ She is quite safe. I take you to her," was the 
gipsy's answer to Marie’s eager question about her child. 
“ That boy came to warn us, that soldiers are now 
searching our camp. You must remain in concealment 
until they are gone,” and she led her forward to 
the edge of the precipice, and a little way along to 
where a fringe of trees bent down towards the river, 
completely shutting out all sight of it, or of its bank. 
Zeena went down on her knees, beside the trunk of one 
of these overhanging trees, and parting aside the 



162 


The Huguenot Family. 


branches, showed Marie a curious ladder made of 
strong pieces of bark, hanging down the face of the 
cliff to a level platform about twenty feet below. 

“ Can you go down that ?” she asked. 

For a moment Marie shrank back, but quickly ga¬ 
thering courage, she answered, she could do whatever 
was necessary. The gipsy went down first, and direct¬ 
ing Marie to keep her face to the rock, she guided 
her feet from step to step, so that the bottom was easily 
and safely reached. 

By the moonlight Marie could see where she was. 
At one time a bold promontory had here stood out into 
the river ; but, either by the gradual operation of natu¬ 
ral causes, or by some sudden convulsion, a great part 
of it had years ago sunk down from the rest of the bank, 
and now stood firm, as I have said, nearly twenty feet 
below it. It had all been covered with trees and 
bushes, but a small space about three or four feet square 
had been cleared, and at one side of this clearing, wrapt 
in the gipsy's cloak, lay little Aimee fast asleep. The 
overhanging trees and bank precluded the possibility of 
discovery from above, and from observers on the other 
bank they were equally hidden by the brushwood and 
trees which had been left standing on the terrace itself. 

Zeena made Marie sit down in a corner, well shel- - 
tered from the keen blast of the early morning, placed 
Aimee on her knee, drew the cloak carefully, even ten¬ 
derly round them both, and left them, saying— 

“ I must go to the camp, but I shall come back so 
soon as the soldiers are gone. And keep up your 
heart, gentle one. It is very well for us that they have 
made this visit. We shall be the more free from them 
in the future." 



The Night Journey. 


163 


It was a quiet peaceful spot in wliich Marie sat, the 
river murmuring below, the wind sighing softly through 
the trees overhead, and the level beams of the moon 
low in the sky, cast long lines of light and shade on 
the green turf at her feet. But not more quiet and 
peaceful was the scene than her own heart. All the 
happiness of her life passed before her mind as a plea¬ 
sant dream, awakening no regret, only gratitude for 
the past, trust for the future. The home of her child¬ 
hood in all its wild, romantic beauty, her husband’s 
home in its fertility and pleasantness, rose before her 
eyes, and she lived over again, even to the minutest 
details, many scenes of earlier and later life, more par¬ 
ticularly those of the last twenty-four hours, tracing 
God’s hand in every event, returning Him thanks for 
every token of His goodness, and rejoicing with child¬ 
like faith to take every gift as from His hands. Her 
mind dwelt much upon her husband, and recalled all 
the changes through which he had passed during the 
last few weeks; the dull, pertinacious despondency, the 
acute remorse, succeeded by the animation, the excite¬ 
ment, even the exultation of the past night and day. 
She prayed earnestly for him and for her absent chil¬ 
dren, earnestly but not anxiously. Anxiety was for 
the time swallowed up in quiet confidence in the pro¬ 
tection and blessing of her heavenly Father, whose 
wisdom and power are equalled only by His love. 
Bodily fatigue might have something to do with this 
great quietness of spirit; but far more was due to the 
tender ministering care of Him who “ stayeth His 
rough wind in the day of the east wind,” who “ watereth 
His vineyard every moment,” and who suiteth His 
supply of grace to every moment’s need. Of this Marie 



164 


The Huguenot Family. 


was deeply conscious; and ever as the quiet peace of 
her soul increased, increased, too, was her gratitude to 
Him who had ordered all things for her, all things in 
her outward life, all in her inner spirit. 

Zeena returned after about an hour's absence, and 
found Aimee still asleep—Marie sitting in the place and 
posture in which she had left her, looking up calmly 
into the blue sky at the stars beginning to pale before 
the morning light. The gipsy resumed her burden, 
and while holding the sleeping child on one arm, assisted 
Marie up the ladder with the other. Marie recognised 
her Father’s tender care in this rude woman’s gentle¬ 
ness, and thought even for weaknesses and fears with 
which she could have little sympathy. The bark ladder 
was drawn up and concealed among the bushes, and 
they were soon at the gipsy’s encampment. 

This time there was no attempt at concealment. The 
small black tents were pitched on the sheltered side of 
a narrow strip of plantation, bordering a piece of waste 
land, through which ran the high-road, and a bright 
fire blazed in front, attracting the attention of every 
passer-by. The party encamped here was numerous ; 
but they all welcomed Marie with kindness. One of 
the little tents had been set apart for her, and into it 
she crept with the half-awakened Aimee, seeing with 
intense satisfaction that Zeena had laid herself down 
to sleep across the entrance. 

Fatigued as Marie was, sleep did not come so readily 
as it had done in the cave on the previous afternoon. 
It was now the gipsies’ time for being awake, and the 
loud voices and laughter of the elder members of the 
party,* with the shouts and occasional squabbles of the 
children disturbed her, so unused to any such annoy- 



The Night Journey. 


165 


ance. When she did fall asleep, however, she slept 
quietly for several hours, and awoke much refreshed. 
Aimee was gone from her side, and when she went out 
to seek her, she found her transformed into a gipsy 
child, and most contentedly chatting to the lame hoy, 
Eohin, who was to he her companion in the journey. 

Some of the gipsies had gone on, others were pre¬ 
paring to follow, and so soon as Marie had finished 
the rude breakfast prepared for her, they all set out, 
Aimee in the covered cart beside Eohin, who was 
charged to keep her amused and quiet, and as much 
as possible out of sight. 




CHAPTER XII. 


DANGEES BY THE WAY. 

f HEY met no adventures this day. They went 
only about ten miles, and Marie, Aimee, 
Eohin, and Zeena, slept the following night 
in a comfortable barn among clean straw. 

^ Zeena had begged this night’s quarters from 
a worthy farmer, ostensibly for the sake of 
her sick boy, really from a consideration for 
Marie and Aimee; and the good man having 
a large, dearly-loved family himself, granted leave 
cordially, his kind-hearted wife sending them a liberal 
supply of food from her own table. 

Ten or twelve miles the next day, and so on for the 
next three weeks. Such leisurely journeys suited the 
gypsies’ tastes and habits ; but Marie felt often fretted 
and impatient when she remembered the long weary 
way before her, although, had she been permitted to 
press on more rapidly, her strength must have failed 
long before reaching her destination. As it was, 
though excitement and anxiety kept her up, and Zeena 
made her ride in one of the carts, or on a donkey, 
whenever she could do so without attracting attention, 
yet each night she felt so exhausted, that she often 
feared the morning’s sun would find her unable to 
proceed. 

Sometimes they travelled in company with other 


167 


Dangers hy the Way. 

gipsies, but oftener alone. And this Marie liked best, 
although it was more dangerous, a small gipsy party 
being unusual enough to excite suspicion, and where 
it was excited, there being too few to make it easy to 
draw attention from the really suspicious individuals. 
But in the larger companies, though she was always 
treated with kindness, and even respect, there was 
much that she could not but shrink from with loathing, 
and which she was deeply pained that her child should 
see and hear. And it was always with pleasure that 
she saw her companions depart, and leave her alone 
with the kind Zeena and Eobin. 

Scarcely a day passed in which they did not get an 
alarm, more or less severe, either from parties of sol¬ 
diers scouring the country in search of fugitives, or 
from patrols of the peasant guard stationed all along 
the roads to arrest, and turn back suspicious charac¬ 
ters. Great was the skill Zeena showed in avoiding 
these parties, where such avoidance was possible; and 
where it was not, still more admirable were her cool¬ 
ness and presence of mind in meeting them, evading 
their questions, and dispelling their suspicions. Once 
or twice they had reason to fear that in this last matter 
they had not wholly succeeded. But in each instance 
the suspecter was one of the peasant guard, and these 
men cordially abhorring the work forced upon them, 
and for the most part sympathizing more with the 
pursued than the pursuers, were by no means vigilant 
in the discharge of their duty, but had been known to 
assist fugitives, even at the hazard of their own lives 

It was, however, one of these very men who brought 
them into the most serious difficulty they had yet met 

* See Waisa’s History of the Protestant Refugees. 




168 


The Huguenot Family, 


with. He was a surly, ill-tempered fellow, with a na¬ 
turally tyrannical disposition, delighting to exercise the 
brief authority with which he was invested. From this 
cause, more than from any real suspicion, he arrested 
their march, and insisted that they should accompany 
him to the neighbouring village, to be examined by 
the magistrate. This must have been highly danger¬ 
ous, and Zeena resolutely refused. She was a woman 
of extraordinary strength; even alone she was more 
than a match for the fellow, and with Marie, who 
looked like a well-grown boy, was more formidable 
than he cared to encounter. He left them with a 
threat to follow them with a party of gendarmes. 
Zeena had no doubt he would keep his purpose, and 
made her preparations accordingly. For herself and 
Kobin there was no risk, but Marie and the child 
must, she said, be hid somehow. The district through 
which they were passing was well known to her; she 
had often travelled through it, and had spent several 
winters there. She knew nearly every one of the 
inhabitants; and the farmer who lived at the farm 
on which they then were, was her particular friend. 
Dibon had once rendered this man an essential service, 
by revealing to him a plot for waylaying and robbing 
him on his return home from a fair, and the farmer 
had repaid the service by repeated acts of kindness to 
himself and family. Zeena knew the worthy man 
and his wife thoroughly, knew that though Catholic 
by profession, they were more than half Huguenot in 
heart, and had assisted many a poor persecuted family 
to escape; knew also that they were entirely worthy 
of full confidence, and to them, therefore, she applied, 
telling them the exact truth. Her hopes of their pity 



Dangers hy the Way. 


169 


and sympatliy were not disappointed; but assistance 
seemed a more difficult matter. 

“We have as good a cacJiette as there is in France,” 
said Matthieu, “ and many a poor persecuted has it 
hid in its day. But he whom you name,” (Zeena had 
recognised the patrol,) “ knows the secret. He is a 
renegade Huguenot, and was hid in that very place 
for more than one day and night. There is another 
place, but”—and he stopped, and looked compassion¬ 
ately at Marie. 

“ Oh, do not mind what place it is,” she cried eagerly, 
“ if it will only conceal us.” 

“ Ah, lady,” he answered, shaking his head, “ you 
could not stay in it. You do not know what a place 
it is. I could not bear to see such as you in such a 
dreary horrible hole.” 

“You would then rather see her at the stake ?” said 
Zeena impatiently. 

This question decided the matter. He explained 
that in the well at the bottom of his garden was a small 
lateral chamber made for the express purpose of con¬ 
cealing such fugitives. Marie at once declared her 
readiness to take refuge in it, and when the good mo¬ 
ther of the house had wrapt her and Aimee in as many 
warm eloaks and coverlets as they could bear, they 
were led down the garden to the well. Zeena could 
not stay to see them safe. She, with Eobin and his 
cart, set off at once, that they might be seen by the 
soldiers pursuing their way with perfect unconcern. 

The farmer and his wife lowered Marie and Aimee 
in the bucket. The men of the farm were all absent 
at work. And it was well they were so; for, as 
Matthieu said, the best way to keep a secret is not to 

u 



170 The Huguenot Famihj, 


know it. Marie carried down a little billet of burning 
wood in her hand to shew her the entrance to her den, 
throwing it into the water when it had served its pur¬ 
pose. A den it was, indeed, morn dreary and miserable 
than she had fancied. It was so far down as to be 
perfectly dark, about six feet high, three or four wide, 
and twelve or fourteen long. The water stood more 
than two inches deep on the floor, and the walls were 
dripping with moisture—with something almost worse 
than moisture Marie thought, when a large toad dropped 
on Aimee’s head, and crawled down her neck and arms. 
The child screamed, and struggled to get away from 
her mother, declaring she could not stay in such a 
horrible place; but Marie took her in her arms, wrapt 
her up in her own coverings, so that neither water nor 
toad could reach her, and soothed and encouraged 
her. 

“We must stay, darling, for a little. I am not afraid. 
God is with us, and will take care of us.” 

“ But if the men come down here, and find us after 
all ?” sobbed poor Aimee. 

“ The Lord will hide us under the shadow of His 
wings,” she answered confidently. 

Aimee raised her head, and ceased her sobbing. 

“ Ah, mamma,” she said, “ that was what you and 
Hortense said the day we were lost in the wood.” 

“ Yes, dear, and the Lord did hide us that day, when 
we knew not but that every step might bring us on out 
enemies. And the Lord sent Bernard and good Zeena 
to guide us right. And He has taken care of us all 
ever since.” And she went on to recall the many proofs 
of His care and goodness they had experienced during 
the last fortnight, until her words were stopped by the 



Dangers hy the Way. 


171 


sound of horses’ feet passing along the road near which 
the well was situated. 

It was the soldiers. The good farmer and his wife 
had hardly had time to compose their spirits and coun¬ 
tenances before they arrived. Matthieu was asked il 
the gipsy and her party had been at his house. 

‘^Yes/' he said, “ I gave them meat and drink, for 
I know them ; good worthy people they are.” 

“ Good worthy people, and gipsies I” sneered the 
patrol, who had accompanied the party. 

“Yes, good and worthy, and gipsies. Better and 
more worthy than some folks I know who are not 
gipsies,” the old man retorted angrily, glancing signi¬ 
ficantly at the other. His anger being roused did him 
good; it made him more composed. He pointed out 
to the officer in command the gipsy and her cart at 
some distance along the road. 

“ The young lad is not there, though,” cried the 
informer. 

“ There was no young lad when she came here,” 
Matthieu said very coolly. 

The officer said he must search the house. The 
farmer readily acquiesced. Every room was looked 
into ; and at last, with a look of malicious triumph, the 
patrol led the way to the secret chamber. It was 
empty. Matthieu laughed derisively. 

“ You are satisfied now, I hope?” he asked. 

“No, I am not,” the other answered furiously; 
“ you have a well, I know, good master Matthieu.” 

The wife, listening at the foot of the stairs, heard 
the words, and sank down, sick and giddy on the 
lowest step. The poor lady was lost now. 

“ A well ? To be sure I have, what of that ?” He 



.172 


The Huguenot Family. 


tried to speak contemptuously, in spite of the sore 
sinking at his heart. 

“ A well, what of that?” repeated the officer. 

“ I will tell you, Capitaine. These cursed Hugue¬ 
nots build secret chambers in their wells. Such a 
one this man has. I’ll be bound. He is well known as 
a helper of heretics.” 

“ Ay, none know it better than you,” Matthieu 
muttered bitterly. 

The officer was intensely disgusted with the whole 
affair. He hoped little, and cared less, for success; but 
that he might not be accused of want of zeal, he 
-ordered the farmer to lead the way to the well. 
Matthieu’s wife rose, and hid herself and her tremors 
in the kitchen closet. The men passed down to the 
garden. 

“ It is deep enough, at any rate. I can hardly see 
the water,” the officer said, looking down. “ Well, 
sirrah, as you know all about it, you must go seek this 
mysterious chamber.” 

The man did not like the task, the well looked so 
dark and deep. But he dared not refuse, and got into 
the bucket. The farmer officiously offered his services 
to let him down. He understood the windlass, he said. 
So he did. Understood it well enough to make the 
bucket scrape against the damp wall, and give its 
occupant his share of the discomfort poor Marie was 
enduring. He was soon wet through, and thoroughly 
chilled. 

“ Mamma, mamma, they come,” whispered Aimee. 

“ Hush, hush, darling, the Lord will hide us under 
the shadow of His wings. Hone can see us, unless 
He thinks it for our good that we should be seen 



Dangers hy the Way. • 173 . 

and she drew farther into the inmost corner of the 
passage. 

And the Lord did so hide them under the shadow of 
His wings, that none should set on them to hurt them. 
It was a bright sunny day up in the garden, and the 
patrol had not thought of taking down a light. It 
was dark far down there, and his eyes were dazzled 
with the sudden change from the light. He could see 
nothing, and when he tried to feel for an opening with 
his hands, Matthieu contrived to bruise them so severely 
between the bucket and the wall, that he soon lost 
courage and patience. He was now at the level of 
the water, and the farmer, by a sudden turn of the 
windlass, plunged the bucket down to some depth. 
Terrified that he was to be drowned, he roared to be 
taken out, and was drawn up, his cheeks and lips 
blue, his teeth chattering, his limbs stiff with cold, 
amid the jeers and laughter of his companions.* 

Marie drew a long breath of relief and fervent 
gratitude. 

“ They are gone, dear Aimee, we shall soon be free 
now, so soon as the soldiers are fairly away.” 

“ Very soon; will it be very soon, mamma? it is so 
cold down here,” said the poor child. 

Marie, too, felt it very cold, now that the fever of 
anxiety and alarm had passed. She began to shiver, 
and could only keep Aimee in her arms by leaning for 
support against the wet slimy wall. 

Their release was delayed longer than they expected. 
The officer had to wait the return of two of his men 
whom he had sent after the gipsy. They reported 

* Such a 8tory is told of Broussau, one of the Huguenot preachers See 
Peyrat’s “ Histoire des Pasteurs du Dgsert.” 



174 


The Huguenot Family. 


tliat there was nothing suspicious about her. She had 
a lame hoy in the cart, and said her other son had 
gone on before, while she stopped for a little at Farmer 
Matthieu’s. She was quite willing, the men said, to 
come and speak to Monsieur le Capitaine, if he wished 
it. 

No! if she were willing. Monsieur le Capitaine 
thought it very unnecessary to give her, or himself, so 
much trouble. And dismissing the patrol to his post, 
with a hint to be less officious for the future, he rode 
off with his party. 

The farmer hastened to release his prisoners. Shiver¬ 
ing, trembling with cold, Marie found it both difficult 
and dangerous to place herself and child in the bucket. 
But difficulty, and danger, weariness, and cold, were 
soon forgotten in the farmer’s warm kitchen, amid the 
kind attentions of his good wife and two sturdy dam¬ 
sels, whom she had summoned from barn and dairy to 
assist her. A warm bed was prepared for them, into 
which they were laid with as little delay as possible. 
The mistress rubbed their limbs with woollen cloths 
until they glowed with heat, while the maidens bustled 
about preparing every kind of warm meat and drink 
they could think most likely to be acceptable. 

Zeena had directed that they should remain at the 
farm until she returned for them, which she did as soon 
as it was dark. The farmer and his wife would fain 
have kept them all night, that they might see Marie 
look a little less pale. But Zeena convinced them 
that it would be dangerous; and they were forced to 
let her go. 

Marie was unwilling to leave them without a token 
of her gratitude. From the jewels she had concealed 



Dangers hy the Way. 


175 


about ber person she selected a diamond ring, which 
she asked the old lady to accept. 

“ Bless you! sweet one, it shines bravely. But what 
should I do with such a thing?” she asked, looking at 
it with a curious admiration. 

“It is valuable. It might bring a great deal—a 
good deal of money,” Marie stammered, blushing at 
praising her own gift. “ You could buy something that 
would please you more to remember me by, something, 
too, for these good girls.” 

“ Ah! sweet lady, we shall not soon forget your 
pretty face. These girls should not stay another hour 
in my service if I thought they wished payment for 
aught they have done. And for me, I should not for¬ 
give myself to my dying day if I could take anything 
from thee, whom it has been such pleasure to serve.” 

“ At least you must take this,” Marie said, throwing 
her arms round her neck, and kissing her on both 
cheeks, “ and the blessing of a mother whose child you 
have saved.” 

“And thy kiss and thy blessing is more to me than 
all the sparklers in the world, gentle one,” the good 
woman answered, warmly returning the caress. “ God 
bless thee and all thine, and take thee safely out of this 
poor persecuted country!” 

And so they parted. Marie’s faith was strengthened 
by this manifest token of God’s care. And the adven¬ 
ture had this good effect upon Aimee, that it made her 
more timid. She kept more under the cover of the 
cart, and gave her kind companion, Eobin, less trouble 
in concealing her, where concealment was necessary. 

After this came several days of incessant rain, mak¬ 
ing the daily journey a sore trial to Marie’s patience 



176 


The Huguenot Family. 


and strength. It was indeed comfortless to get wet 
through each morning in the first half-hour, to toil on 
for ten or twelve miles through mud and pelting rain, 
with no prospect of dry clothes at the end of the journey, 
or of any better shelter than could be found under a 
sand-bank or hedge, or such as the leafless trees of a 
wood could afford. It required all Marie’s cheerful 
submission, all her childlike acceptance of every event 
as sent from a Father’s hand, to enable her to bear it 
without murmurs, that would have been not more use¬ 
less than injurious to her own health and comfort. 

At last the weather brightened. The rain ceased, 
the sun shone, and they had a few of those fine balmy 
days we sometimes see in the beginning of winter, a 
sort of sample of the Indian summer our American 
brethren enjoy. On one of the brightest of these days 
Zeena told Marie, as they ate their early breakfast, 
that she should see her husband that night, and that 
they should now travel together. 

Poor Marie’s joy was unbounded. Never since their 
marriage had they been separated for so long a time. 
She had uttered no word of complaint, but she had 
felt his long absence very trying. Now she was to see 
him again, to hear his voice, to know how he was, and 
how he felt, to nurse him if ill, to cheer him if well, 
to comfort him in sorrow, to rejoice with him in happi¬ 
ness, to strengthen and encourage him if weak, to lean 
on him in his strength. Her happiness was expressed in 
every line of her face, in every tone of her voice, in her 
very carriage and motions. All was changed and bright 
to her eyes. The way no longer seemed tedious, for 
did not every step bring her nearer to him ? The 
scenery was no longer monotonous, the country no 



Dangers hy the Way, 


177 


longer too flat; for should she not the sooner see him 
approach ? She walked on with a light elastic step, 
sometimes before the cart in her eagerness to get on. 
She jested and sported with Aimee, and every now and 
then, half unconsciously, her feelings found expression 
in hymns and songs of gratitude. Zeena, who had be¬ 
come much attached to her, watched her with interest, 
and resolved that if she could help it, the husband and 
wife should not be again parted. 

Towards the end of this day's journey their road 
lay through a village. In general Zeena avoided all 
towns, and even hamlets. But their journey had been 
long. The only alternative was a round of several 
miles, and as the village was small, they resolved to go 
quietly and quickly through. 

It consisted of one long irregular street, with houses 
straggling away from, or down to it, in every style, and 
in every position. They met no one. The whole 
place seemed asleep, or very busy with their own occu¬ 
pations. At the blacksmith’s shop alone was there any 
sign of life. Here were drawn up two enormous wag¬ 
gons with three horses each, belonging to a carrier who 
had found in a slight disrepair in one of his vehicles, 
an excellent reason for enjoying a gossip in this centre 
of such amusement as a blacksmith's shop always is. 
The waggons completely blocked up the road, and 
Zeena, unwilling to attract notice, stood still for a few 
minutes, waiting to see whether way might not be 
made for her, without her interference. 

They were close to the shop, and could hear the master 
of the waggons holding forth to a circle of gaping lis¬ 
teners. Strange to say, his discourse was of the persecu¬ 
tions in Marie's own province. The man had, he said, 



178 


The Huguenot Family. 


only the day before met with a gentleman’s servant who 
had just come from these parts, and who had told him 
many strange things. And then he went on to tell Marie’s 
own history with many additions and exaggerations. 

“ Besides the two little ones they took with them,” 
he said, “ they had another child, a boy. The obstinate 
little fool must needs be a heretic as well as his elders, 
and has remained for more than a twelvemonth shut up 
in some dismal dungeon in a monastery, rather than do 
as he was bid by those who were wiser and better than 
himself. So when the father and mother were gone, 
the boy was questioned if he had ever heard them say 
where they would go to, or anything about it. But 
not one word could be got from him by all the means 
the good fathers could use, and we know” (with a sig¬ 
nificant laugh) “ their means are not always the 
gentlest in the world.” 

Zeena could bear no more. Marie had turned deadly 
pale, and leaned against the wall for support. Nothing 
could well be more dangerous than further delay. And 
taking the law into her own hands, Zeena seized the 
foremost horse of one of the teams, and drew the wag¬ 
gon out of her way. More concerned about getting on 
than about anything else, her solicitude to avoid in¬ 
juring what hindered her was not oppressive. She 
brought the one waggon in somewhat rough contact 
with the horses of the other, and their plunging and 
kicking brought their master with his man to the door 
in all haste. He began to abuse the gipsy in no 
measured terms. She heard him in silence, leading on 
her own donkey with an air of cool unconcern, in¬ 
expressibly provoking. Marie, in trying to glide past 
to join her companions, came against him, or rather 



Dangers by the Way. 179 

be ran up against her. This brought his anger to a 
height. 

‘‘You impertinent young dog,” he cried, grasping 
her roughly by the arm. “ Is that all the respect you 
shew your betters? What respectable man, do you 
think, should like to rub shoulders with a thieving 
rascal like you ? See here now,” looking at her more 
closely, “if this is not the very young scoundrel that was 
sent to prison at Dornay last week for horse-stealing, 
and managed to get out, and has never been heard of 
since. We shall have you up to the Maire, my young 
gentleman, and see what he has to say to you.” 

Zeena desired Eobin to drive on as fast as possible, 
and returned to Marie’s side to attempt her rescue. 
But while her captor gave the bystanders a full and 
particular account of her supposed escape from prison, 
Marie found an opportunity of whispering to her friend 
to leave her, and go on with Aimee. 

“You must go with her to take care of her, good 
Zeena,” she said imploringly. “ You can do me no good. 
And you must be at the meeting-place to keep my hus¬ 
band quiet. If you are not, he will come on here to 
help me. He cannot be of the least use, and can only 
bring himself into danger. Tell him that I entreat 
him by the love he bears me, to care for his own safety, 
for our children’s sake.” 

Zeena still hesitated. But at that instant Aimee, 
who had watched the whole scene from the opening at 
the back of the cart, stretched out her arms towards 
her mother, and cried aloud ;— 

“ 0 do not hurt mamma! 0 let mamma go ! 

Mamma, mamma! come to your Aimee.” 

The men around were all busy, some listening to the 



180 The Huguenot Family. 

interesting description of tlie prison-breaking, others 
helping the carrier’s man to quiet the horses, and dis¬ 
entangle the harness. No one heard the cry except 
Marie and Zeena. Kohin’s good little donkey cantering 
away, soon bore the sound even from them; but they 
could see by the child’s gestures, with her body half 
out of the cart, that the dangerous entreaties had not 
ceased ; and the gipsy ran forward to stop them before 
harm had ensued. But now a new object of alarm 
presented itself. At a sudden turn of the road was seen 
a gentleman on horseback, riding quickly towards them. 
He passed the little cart, checked his horse, listened, 
turned back, spake a word or two to Aimee, and then 
hastened on. The child was quiet instantly, and sunk 
back into her usual seat, from whence she seemed to 
watch the horseman with intense anxiety. The gentle¬ 
man’s servants now came in sight, but they passed the 
cart without a glance—they had evidently heard no¬ 
thing. 

Their master rode on to where Marie stood, sur¬ 
rounded by the villagers, who were disputing about the 
proper mode of taking her before the magistrate. The 
imminence of the danger had restored all her presence 
of mind. Leaning against the wall of the shop, one 
foot carelessly crossed over the other, her head a 
little thrown back, her eyes fixed on a distant bright 
cloud, she heard all they said in perfect silence, and 
looked supremely indifferent and unconcerned. Indif¬ 
ferent and unconcerned as regarded them she really 
felt. She felt herself entirely in the Lord’s hands, and 
waited quietly to see what He should appoint for her. 

The horseman made as if he would have passed the 
group, then stopped, and asked in a gay careless tone— 








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The Baron de Rajmal recognizes Mane 


P. 181 


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Dangers hy the Way. 


181 


“ What have you here, my friends ? What has that 
lad been about T’ 

“ Stealing horses, and breaking out of the prison of 
Dornay, Monsieur,” cried half-a-dozen voices at once. 

“ Ah, indeed I” in the same indifferent tone; then 
looking more closely at Marie, his whole manner 
changed. “ What! is it you, my good boy he cried; 
“ how glad I am to see you again—why did you go 
away in such haste ? Why have you never given me 
an opportunity of shewing you my gratitude ?—A horse¬ 
stealer, you fools!” to the men around, who had listened 
with gaping wonder to the foregoing address, I know 
the lad well; he is a good, decent boy as ever lived, 
and very lately saved my life at the hazard of his own. 
Take care,” very sternly, “ what you are about. Your 
Seigneur is my particular friend, and will not be over 
well pleased to hear that you have brought an innocent 
boy who had so greatly served me, into mischief by a 
false charge. I know it is false, and so you shall find 
to your cost if you persevere in it.” 

The men drew back from Marie at these words. The 
carrier had accused her more from a wish to put her to 
inconvenience, than from any very strong persuasion 
that she was the man he called her. And he now re¬ 
leased her with a sullen, muttered apology, and an 
assurance that he should never have said a word if he 
had known Monsieur could have cared at all about it. 

Marie walked out of the open circle with a step and 
air of cold dignity, very suitable to a proud gipsy under 
the circumstances.. One look of earnest gratitude she 
raised to her deliverer, in whom she had recognised the 
Baron de Baynal, and was passing quietly on, when he 
stretched out his hand to arrest her progress. 




182 


The Huguenot Family. 


“ No, no, we do not part so easily, I have at 
last found you. You do not know how long and 
anxiously I have sought for you—you must not go this 
time without at least some token of my gratitude.’^ 

As he spoke, he had contrived to make his horse 
hack, apparently from impatienee, until a free space 
was round him and Marie; then stooping to put money 
into her hand, he whispered, “ I must see, must speak 
to you of Hortense, of Eugene, of Hubert.” Marie 
started, and gave a half-exclamation of anxiety. But 
the attention of the bystanders was fixed on the Baron 
and his skilfully-excited horse. He patted and caressed 
it, spoke to it kindly, soothing the restlessness he had 
himself caused, all in the most natural way possible; 
and when he saw that Marie had recovered herself, ho 
said loud enough for his attendants to hear— 

“ And was that your good mother I passed on the 
road? I must see her, and tell her how gallantly her 
boy behaved. I am in great haste now ; but where do 
you sleep to-night ?” 

Marie pointed to a small wood about half a mile on. 

“ Oh, that will do excellently. I am living at the 
chateau up there. Do, you and your good mother, 
come up to see me to-night about seven o’clock. Nay 
you must come. I must find some way of serving 
you, to whom I owe my life. Ask for my valet.—And 
Aubon,” beckoning to one of his servants, ‘‘ when this 
lad and his mother come to-night, shew them up to my 
cabinet. I wish to speak to them alone. Show them 
all kindness. He saved my life.—^You must come,” to 
Marie, “ I must hear your history from your own lips, 
that I may know how I can serve you.—^And you, good 
man,” to the carrier, “ if you want to find the horse- 



Dangers hy the Way. 


183 


stealer, look for a man Lalf a foot taller, much stouter, 
and at least twenty years older. He is fully described 
in the directions to all the patrolling parties. Ask them 
if it be not as I say. And take care how you meddle 
with ‘an innocent man again." 

The carrier looked sheepish. The Baron rode off, 
and Marie with a heart feverish with anxiety went to 
rejoin her friends. 




CHAPTER XIIL 


GERAED DE EAYNAL. 



HEY had reached the spot where they meant 
to encamp for the night. Aimee was watch¬ 
ing for her mother. She ran to meet her, 
and threw herself into her arms, weeping and 
sobbing from the excitement of past alarm 
and present joy. 

“ The kind good gentleman said he should 
set you free,” she cried, clinging to her 
mother’s neck, and overwhelming her with kisses. 

“ What do you mean, my child ?” Marie did not 
know that Aimee had spoken to Gerard. 

“ He heard me call for my mamma, and he asked me 
who she was, and I told him,” with a proud toss of the 
little head, “ that she was Madame la Comtesse de 
Blancard.” 

Marie’s heart rose in fervent gratitude to God that 
He had suffered no evil to ensue from her child’s rash¬ 
ness. 

Zeena scolded heartily but uselessly. Aimee main¬ 
tained that she had done quite right. 

“ If I had not told him,” she said, “ mamma might 
have been sent to prison, and I,—ah 1 then I should have 
broken my heart.” 

The alarm had given the child a shock from which 


Gerard de Raynal. 


185 


she conld not easily recover. At one moment extra¬ 
vagantly gay, at the next timid and nervous, starting 
at every sound, and clinging to her mother in trem¬ 
bling alarm, Marie’s whole attention was engrossed in 
soothing and quieting her. She had no leisure to 
meditate on what she had heard about her boy, to 
speculate about what she had still to hear, or to weary 
for her husband’s arrival. And it was well she had 
not. Hour after hour passed, and still he did not 
come. And now the gipsy, looking at the stars, 
announced that the time had come for going to meet 
the, Baron. 

And painful, awkward as it was, Marie must go 
alone. They could not both leave Aimee, as Eobin 
was still unable to move without assistance. Having 
once decided that she ought and must go without 
Zeena, Marie went without delay or murmur. Zeena 
accompanied her to the gate of the avenue, which 
was near their encampment, and left her. 

Never in all their journey had Marie felt so timid as 
now. To go among a set of strange servants, who 
were unaware of her claims to respect, either from rank 
or sex, was excessively painful to her. And after 
she had reached the door she paused for some time, ere 
she could find courage to raise the knocker. When 
her summons was answered all her difficulties vanished. 
She met with nothing but attention and kindness. The 
Baron’s own valet, Aubon, anxious to shew his zeal, 
was waiting for her, and took her at once to his 
master’s dressing-room. 

Gerard did not keep her long waiting; and when 
they met, his manner was exactly what it ought to have 
been, respectful, nay deferential, and so completely 

N 



186 


The Huguenot Family. 


ignoring any cause for embarrassment as to remove at 
once that measure of it under -wbich Marie had been 
suffering. This was not their first meeting; he had 
been several times at Blancard during the past twelve- 
month to concert measures for her safety, and her boy's 
freedom. And Marie had been often struck by his 
eager zeal in her service, and his tender sympathy with 
her and hers. But neither then nor now had there 
been, in word, look, or tone, the slightest indication 
of a warmer feeling than might be awakened by her, 
as the playmate of his childhood, as the sister of one 
friend, the wife of another. 

He entered at once upon the business of the moment. 
He apologized for asking her to come to him, explain¬ 
ing that he could not have sought her without awaken¬ 
ing attention, perhaps suspicions, which in present 
circumstances might have proved dangerous. He 
went on to tell her that he had heard of her flight 
almost immediately after it had occurred. He was 
travelling in Franche-Comte, when he met in with the 
soldiers in pursuit of Theodore. The gipsy lads, after 
luring their pursuers on to Saintfont, had skilfully 
suffered them to meet again with their track, beyond 
that place, on the direct road to G-eneva. And at the 
time the Baron met the party they were in full pursuit 
in that direction. The officer in command knew the 
Baron, and, aware of the interest he took in the family, 
he told him all he knew about them. Gerard at once 
set off for Blancard, to find out where Marie was, and 
whether he could help her. He took the road he 
thought she was most likely to pursue, and closely 
scrutinized every travelling party he met, of whatever 
rank or character. 



Gerard de Raynal. 


187 


On the afternoon of his second day’s journey, he met 
the Lajous. They were disguised as travelling show- 
people. A monkey, a marmot, a dancing-dog, the 
wife’s sweet voice and cithern, the children’s fantastic 
dress, and dancing, formed the simple features of their 
exhibition. But such as it was, their show had met 
with favour wherever they had come, and under its 
disguise they had hitherto passed in perfect safety. 
They were exhibiting in the market-place of a small 
town, when he passed through it. 

“ And did Hortense dance ?” Marie asked, her pride 
wounded for her child, which had been silent and still 
under all her own humiliations. 

“ No, indeed,” he answered heartily, “ she is the 
petted child, the queen of the party. You yourself 
could hardly care for her more tenderly, watch over her 
more jealously than does the good mother in whose 
charge she is. And even if she did not, Bernard looks 
upon her as the apple of his eye, and no annoyance 
and no privation is suffered to come near her. She 
does not make her appearance at all at the exhibitions; 
and whenever they stop at any place, her comfort and 
safety are the first things thought of.” 

He had not recognised any of the party. But he 
observed, that one of the men looked significantly at 
him several times. And ever on the watch for any¬ 
thing that could guide him in his search, he waited 
patiently till the performance was over, and then, 
after a glance at the man, he sauntered slowly out of 
the village. As he expected, the man followed, and 
made himself known. It was Bernard. He knew 
Gerard’s interest in his master and mistress, and 
was anxious that he should follow Marie, and protect 




188 


The Huguenot Family. 


her, should danger arise. He contrived further, that 
Gerard should see Hortense, that he might tell her 
parents how well and comfortable she was. 

‘‘ And she bade me tell you, that every one was good 
and kind to her, that God made every one take great 
care of her, and that she never forgot that she was 
under the shadow of His wings; and she was not 
afraid.” 

Marie’s heart swelled with gratitude to God for 
His lovingkindness. His tender care of her helpless 
child. 

“ But you spoke of Eugene,” she said. ‘‘ What do 
you know of him?—Ah, then,” as she saw that he 
hesitated to answer, “it is all true that the man said. 
They have tortured, they have murdered him I” 

“ Hot so, not so, Marie,” he cried eagerly. “ Your 
fears carry you too far. I have seen him, have spoken 
with him. He looks well, and says he has not been 
unkindly treated. Only,” again he paused, and looked 
at her compassionately. She implored him to tell her 
the worst at once. 

It was soon told. The Count’s property had been 
confiscated. And having no longer anything to ex¬ 
pect from Eugene, as his father’s heir, and irritated by 
his firm adherence to the right. Father Joseph had 
given him over to the civil power. He had been tried 
and condemned to the galleys for life, as an obstinate 
heretic. 

To the galleys I A poor child of eleven years old I 
Her boy, her gay, bright, beautiful boy I She thought 
of all the horrors of such a fate, of the hard labour, 
the cruel punishment, the privation, the exposure, the 
companionship, and her heart s agony was greater than 



Gerard de Raynal. 


189 


could be expressed. Sbe bowed her bead on her knees, 
and strove mightily for submission with tbe striving of 
one on tbe very brink of despair. 

“0 my Father!” she cried aloud, ‘‘it is Thy 
will; make me willing that Thou sbouldst do all Thy 
will. 0 my loving Saviour! take my soul now into 
Thine own bands, and save me from sin. I am Thine, 
we are Thine, O save us !” 

Gerard’s whole soul was deeply moved to see her 
suffer thus. But with the delicacy of true feeling, he 
forbore to intrude on her grief. He did not try to say 
one word of comfort, or even of sympathy. But placing 
a glass of water within her reach, he withdrew to the 
farther end of the room, that she might feel herself 
alone. 

Her prayer was answered speedily. The Lord 
soothed and comforted her, as a mother might* comfort 
her weeping babe ; and, far sooner than Gerard could 
have believed possible, she looked up and spoke to him 
again. The expression of her face, the tone of her 
voice, told of a depth of sorrow most painful to contem¬ 
plate. But it was a quiet sorrow, borne in the strength 
of One who was higher than she. 

“ And my father, and Hubert ?” she asked. 

Gerard returned to her side, and looked at her with 
respectful admiration, with tender pity for a moment 
before he answered. 

“ Your father, dear Marie,” he said slowly and gently, 
“ your father’s sorrows are all over now.” 

Again was her head bowed in meek submission to a 
Father’s will. But this time the blow was far less 
severe. Ah! how sweet did the rest of that home 
appear to her wearied, aching heart! For herself she 



190 


The Huguenot Family. 


must mourn tliat slie should see his face no more ; but 
for him, she must rejoice that he was where sin and 
sorrow cease. 

‘‘ And Hubert ?'* 

Hubert had been sent to the galleys a few weeks 
before. 

The worst was now told. There was alleviation in 
all that remained. Although Gerard had drawn so 
liberally on his influence with the higher powers, it was 
not yet exhausted. He could not obtain any mitiga¬ 
tion of Eugene’s sentence; but he succeeded in getting 
him sent to the gang to which Hubert belonged. This 
was a great comfort to Marie—how great, those only 
can conceive who have been in cireumstances so forlorn 
as hers. Her boy would not then be quite alone and 
friendless. He might have little intercourse with his 
uncle; but they could at least see each other. There 
would be at least one person to mark with interest and 
sympathy whatever the other might have to endure, 
and in her heart she thanked the Lord who had so 
ordered it. 

The destination of Hubert and Eugene was Guada- 
loupe, and in this, too, Gerard saw ground of comfort. 
The governors of these distant colonies were not, he 
said, for the most part, infected as yet with the rancour 
felt against heretics in France. Many of them were 
just, humane men, who treated the convicts with con¬ 
sideration, often even with tenderness. Instances had 
been known in which they had connived at their escape 
to British colonies, where they could be free j and if 
ever interest had effected this in any instance^ it cer¬ 
tainly should not be allowed to fail in this one. 

“ That must be as the Lord will,” Marie thought, 




Gerard de Raynal. 


191 


witL. a feeling more resting than hopeful. “ The hearts 
of all men are in His hands. This is all my confidence, 
that the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.” 

Gerard went on to tell of his interview with Eugene. 
He had failed in his efforts to see him before he left for 
Marseilles, from which port he was to sail; but he had 
followed him, and had overtaken the band, and seen 
Eugene only a few days ago. 

“ I saw several gangs of convicts,’^ he said, “ while 
searching for the one to which he belongs. And among 
the different guards there were , many fierce, brutal 
men, who delighted in witnessing the sufferings of their 
prisoners; but those who have charge of your boy, 
Marie, looked kind and compassionate, and really treated 
the poor men with all consideration.” 

“ Thy goodness. Thine abundant lovingkindness, 
0 Lord I” Marie said softly to herself. 

“ I—I—” he hesitated. He did not like to tell of 
his own kind deeds. But the mother’s anxiety must 
get every possible relief. “ I gave the guards a little 
money to be gentle with him. I got permission from 
the officer in command to give him a little. It may 
help him should he be under less pitiful leaders.—Nay, 
it was a small thing,” as Marie held out her hand to 
him with a deeply grateful look. 

“ Small for one so full of considerate kindness as you 
are,” she said gratefully. “ And my boy knew you ?” 

“ Yes, at least I told him that I was a friend of yours, 
and should see you soon, if possible. He seemed very 
glad to hear that. He is tall of his age and thin ,* but 
he looks healthy, and even in such circumstances there 
was a look of quiet peace, almost cheerfulness, about 
him I can hardly describe. He bade me tell you, with 



192 


The Huguenot Family, 


all tile love of his heart, that you must not grieve much 
for him ; that the good Shepherd had kept His promise, 
and had taken him in His arms, and carried him in His 
bosom all the way—all the way, he repeated, with a 
beaming look; and that he never had, and knew surely 
he never should want.” 

He was glad to see Marie’s tears flow plentifully as 
she listened to these words. He knew they must be a 
relief; but how great a relief he did not understand. 
He did not know how much gratitude had to do in 
calling them forth, nor how full Marie’s heart then was 
of joy in her Saviour’s tender kindness. 

She rose to go, she held out her hand to him, unable 
to express the thankfulness she felt; he was greatly 
moved. At that moment he would have given all he 
possessed to be able to tell her the feelings of his heart 
—to be able to entreat her not to forget him. But her 
peace of mind was far dearer to him than his own, and 
they parted as they had met, without one word or look 
that could give her the least uneasiness. 

She never saw him again; he saw her in the distance 
several times ; for having heard that they were on their 
way to Eouen, he followed them as closely as was con¬ 
sistent with their safety, in order to be at hand to help 
her in any emergency; and unseen by her, he stood very 
near her when she embarked in the vessel that was to 
convey her for ever from her native land. 

He never married; he lived a solitary but not an 
unhappy life. Personal feelings increasing his natural 
disgust at the conduct of the King and his ministers, he 
retired altogether from public life, and devoted himself 
to the cultivation of his estate, and the welfare and 
improvement of his tenantry. This was the business 



Gerard de Raynal, 


193 


of his life, as the ardent pursuit of science and general 
literature was its recreation, and the assisting all who 
were oppressed was its happiness. His infidelity had 
been shaken hy witnessing the power of a living faith, 
as shewn forth by Marie ; and the study of the Bible 
was not forgotten amid the other studies he engaged in. 
From a mistaken sense of duty holding him back from 
what must deprive him of the power of benefiting those 
dependent on him, he never made an open profession of 
the Huguenot faith—but a true Huguenot he was for 
many years before his death, and he died rejoicing in 
the glorious truths of the Huguenot’s gospel. 

Marie traversed the avenue much more rapidly than 
she had done before. She made sure of finding her 
husband at their encamping place, and her heart thirst¬ 
ed for his support and sympathy. It would be such a 
comfort to rest once more on his breast, to know that 
every thought and feeling were understood and shared 
in, even before expressed. And ever as the thought 
occurred to her, she quickened her pace that she might 
be the sooner with him. 

How she was near the spot—all was quiet, too quiet, 
she thought, why was he not watching for her ? Might 
he not have come to meet her? She passed hastily 
round the heap of brushwood Zeena had piled up to 
shelter them from the wind. The gipsy sat alone by 
the flickering fire, Eobin lay asleep in the tent formed 
of the covering of his cart, and through the open door¬ 
way of the little turf hut erected by the fruit-watchers 
last chestnut harvest, she could see that Aimee was its 
only' occupant. 

“ My husband?” she asked in breathless anxiety. 

Zeena explained. She had received a message from 



194 


The Huguenot Family, 


Dibon. He and tbe Count were quite well and safe, 
but had found that the road they had purposed to take 
might be dangerous, and they could not now meet them 
for another day or two. She spoke very unconcernedly. 
They were safe, that was enough for her. She neither 
understood nor shared in Marie’s restless craving for 
her husband’s presence. Marie made no appeal to her 
sympathy. Turning with loathing from the offered 
supper, she crept into the hut, threw herself on her 
face beside her sleeping child, and gave full way to her 
disappointed feelings. 

She had counted so surely on having him with her, 
and so sorely needed his affectionate sympathy; and 
now she knew not when she might see him. It seemed 
the last bitter drop in her overflowing cup, and her 
grief was unrestrained, and even passionate. At such 
a time to be left alone ! When her heart had been so 
wrung with grief for her only son, to be obliged to bear 
it all without one friend to stand by her and comfort 
her I 

Alone—^without a friend! Ah, Marie, did not One 
Friend at least stand by your side even then ? Was not 
He looking upon you with compassion far more tender 
than any earthly friend could feel ? Yes, Marie felt it 
was so. Soon did her eye again look up to meet that 
eye of love ever watching her so tenderly. Soon in the 
words of the Psalmist did her “ heart return unto its 
quiet rest,” and acknowledge that “ the Lord had dealt 
bountifully with her.” Most bountifully. Had He not 
that very day saved her from danger and. difficulty in 
the way she could least have expected ? Had He not 
sent her sure intelligence of those she loved, and 
sent it by so kind a messenger ? How little had she 



Gerard de Raynal. 


195 


hoped to hear of her Hortense so soon I What comfort 
to know that she was so well cared for I Even her 
father’s release from suffering ought to he a cause of 
gratitude, and Hubert’s release from the loathsome dun¬ 
geon. The galley ship with all its hardships could 
hardly be so bad as the prison from which it had re¬ 
leased him. He could at least look up into God’s free 
sky, enjoy His sunshine, the fresh breath of heaven, 
and find interest and pleasure in the variety of the 
ocean. 

And for her own Eugene! Ah ! how great was the 
gift of God’s grace to him. How often had she 
despaired of ever making any impression on her wild, 
thoughtless boy, of ever seeing him brought to know 
and to love his Saviour. And now the Lord had taken 
the matter into His own hands, and had Himself 
taught him to profit. The Lord who was his Saviour 
had been his Teacher. He who had borne his sins, 
and atoned for them as his Priest, had been his Pro¬ 
phet to reveal to him the things that concerned his 
everlasting peace, and would be, and was his King to 
rule over him, to rule for him ; even He who had been 
made “ Head over all things for His church.” ’ Here 
was the sure resting-place for the anxious heart of the 
mother. Her boy was safe in the hands of Him who 
is King of kings, and Lord of lords, safe for time, and 
safe for eternity. Ah! what a rich mine of comfort 
was in that thought. She remembered how often, 
when he had been by her side, in full exuberance of 
health and gaiety, when she had rejoiced in his beauty, 
his happiness, his affection, and pleasantness, yet her 
heart had been chilled by the sudden fear, that only 
for this life was she to possess him^ that the day might 



196 


The Huguenot Family. 


Boon come when she should he called upon to part 
from him for ever. Now she could look forward 
through the short days of separation upon earth, to the 
glorious meeting in heaven, never, never, to part 
again j and which possession was most valuable ? The 
answer to her own question, was a long breath of 
thankfulness. 

She sat up, and pushed back the hair from her 
heated brow. She placed herself again, as it were, in 
the presence of her Saviour, her Lord, and mourned 
with shame over the excessive grief she had indulged 
in. Had the Lord led her all this way, and had she 
not learned to trust Him? She looked up into the 
starry sky, until she seemed almost to see Him, look¬ 
ing down upon her in tender reproach, and seemed to 
hear His voice say, as to His disciple of old, “ Have I 
been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not 
known me?" Her tears flowed freely. Tears of re¬ 
pentance, refreshing to her wearied spirit, precious 
tears, called up by the appreciation of the marvellous 
riches of His love. She lay down quietly beside 
Aimee, and fell asleep, while the tears were still wet 
on her cheek. 

On the evening of the following day Theodore and 
Dibon joined them, and the meeting was even more 
joyful than Marie had hoped. Her husband was look¬ 
ing so well. The constant call for exertion, the regular, 
and pretty severe exercise of every day, had done him 
the greatest good. His mind had been called away 
from its morbid brooding over its own state, his over- 
active imagination had had little leisure to work. He 
had lost the expression of almost exulting excitement she 
had observed in their last meeting at the cave; but he 




Gerard de Raynal. 


197 


looked alert, manly, energotio, ready to go forth to 
vigorous action, or (Quietly to endure suspense and 
anxiety, without wavering or impatience. 

His joy at again getting possession of his wife and 
child was unbounded. He would hardly suffer Aimee 
to leave his arms for a moment. 

It was so pleasant, he said, once more to feel little 
arms clinging round his neck. 

“ And, oh, it is such happiness once more to have 
you to rest upon,” said Marie, as she laid her head 
upon his shoulder with the feeling of a wearied child, 
who had at last found a resting-place. 

Hot more of a happiness for you to rest, than for 
me to be rested on,” he answered, looking down into 
her face with an expression of great satisfaction and 
love. 




CHAPTER XIV, 

THE GALLEY SLAVES. 

is a cold, stormy, N’ovem'ber day. The wind 
blows fiercely across a wide space of level 
country, as if it gathered fresh fury from 
every mile it passes. The high-road has no 
hedges to afford shelter from the blast, or to 
break in upon and conceal its weary length of 
straightness, A large party are coming along 
the road, but through this driving rain we 
cannot see them very distinctly. There is a mixture 
of bright scarlets, blues, and yellows, and a shining as 
of arms, and that is all we can distinguish. It may be 
a party of soldiers. But now the storm has swept by, 
and carried the rain-cloud on its wings. We can see 
more clearly. Soldiers are there, but the flashing of 
metal which caught our eye came from chains not 
from bayonets, and by the scarlet and yellow dress of 
shame we recognise a party of convicts. 

Look at the old man, one of the foremost two. Mark 
his bowed figure, his drooping head, his feeble step, his 
thin white hair, his dim and wandering eye. He seems 
hardly to know what is passing around him, or where 
he is. Perhaps his thoughts are busy with the days 
when he sat at the tables of princes, when the high and 
the noble of the land delighted to honour him, when his 
presence was a favour, his opinion an oracle, his influ- 



The Galley Slaves, 


199 


ence a sure bulwark to all to whom it was extended. 
Perhaps they are in his happy and beautiful home, in 
lovely smiling Provence, with all its fruits and flowers, 
its bright skies, and sunny days. Perhaps he thinks of 
the wife of his youth, torn from his sheltering arms in 
her feeble old age, shut up for the few remaining years 
of life within four stone walls, never to see any face 
but that of her jailer—never to hear any voice but his, 
to pass her second childhood alone, uncared for, un¬ 
honoured, far from all she knows and loves. Perhaps 
he thinks of his three gallant sons, one sleeping in his 
martyr’s grave, another a voluntary exile, wandering 
through foreign lands, without money to buy food, 
clothing, or shelter for his motherless little ones, and 
with health broken by hardship and suffering, unable 
to earn it. The third, his talented one, gifted with real 
genius, with all its fervid aspirings after the great, the 
good, the beautiful, but burdened too with more than 
its usual share of sensitiveness, of delicacy both of con¬ 
stitution and temperament, and doomed to toil for life 
under a tropical sun, at the drudgery of field labour, 
with the companionship of the degraded and criminal. 
Perhaps his heart dwells upon her the lamb of his 
flock, the child of his old age, the fair, the gentle, the 
loving, the godly one, now transformed by the cruelty 
of her persecutors into the raving mad woman, ready to 
tear in pieces whoever comes within her reach, were it 
even the mother who bore her, ready to utter the most 
horrid blasphemy that can be suggested to her, against 
the God and Saviour whom even from childhood she 
had so loved and reverenced. But rather I guess, by 
the occasional upward glance of the eye, his thoughts 
have risen above this earth, to the home of rest and 



200 


The Huguenot Family, 


peace reserved for him by Him who has kept His ser¬ 
vant by His power, through faith unto salvation. 

His companion, a strong young man, looks upon him 
with compassion, and strives to bear the greatest share 
of their mutual chain; and yet his compassion is 
strangely mixed with contempt. For he knows the old 
man’s history, and thinks he must be a fool, to give up 
lands, and rank, and fortune, and friends, only that he 
might hold by one religion rather than another, as if 
any religion could be worth such a sacrifice. Ah, poor 
fellow ! had you only known how well worth far more 
than that is the true religion, you might not have been 
here, to suffer the just punishment of your crimes. 

Behind these came some couples of regular galley 
slaves, coarse, brutal, depraved, with their cursing 
blasphemous complaints, and their still more painfully 
blasphemous jests. It is well that the good old man’s 
mind is so abstracted that he does not hear so as to 
understand those terrible words. Still better, that the 
last of the party, that young child, has lagged so far 
behind, that his ear escapes the pollution. 

Yes, he is a child, a mere child—look at his smooth 
cheek, his slight figure in that strange dress, his slender 
throat, his small wrist and ankle, round which they 
found it so difficult to fasten chains, intended for limbs 
of a very different size. It is our Eugene, poor Marie’s 
fondly cherished boy; he is very weary, and lags far 
behind the rest. He cannot drag on these small bruised 
and bleeding feet any faster, and his guards have pity 
on him, and have quietly taken off his chain, and do 
not strike him as they do the others who do not march 
in proper time. Perhaps Gerard’s gold may have had 
some share in this indulgence—but I would fain hope 



The Galley Slaves, 


201 


not all, I would fain hope that the man who has now 
given him his hand, and helps him on, has a little hoy at 
home, and that something more precious than gold has 
the merit of those kind encouraging words, those pity¬ 
ing looks. 

Eugene looks much older than when we saw him 
last. The expression of the small childish mouth that 
used to speak of so much mischief and mirth, is now 
very grave and quiet. But as now and then the bright 
eye glances up to the heavens, you can catch the beam¬ 
ing look of which Gerard spoke, you can read in it the 
triumphant and trustful feeling which was expressed in 
his simple words,—“ all the way, all the way.'^ 

Eugene is thinking of his meeting with his uncle 
Hubert. Gerard had told him that they were to meet 
at Marseilles, and he has heard the guards say that 
they shall reach that town on the fallowing evening. 
What happiness it will be to see again the face of one 
who knows and loves him I His mind goes back to the 
bright days of the past, when uncle Hubert’s visit had 
always been such a cause of rejoicing to the whole 
family. It was uncle Hubert who taught him to ride ; 
and he thinks over the many happy rides they haver 
had together, and a very boy’s sigh of regret he breathes 
to the memory of his beautiful white Arabian, with all 
its gentle affection, all its graceful motions, and pretty 
playfulness. But the half-formed tear is chased away 
before it falls, as the thought passes through his mind, 
“ But I did not love Jesus then,” and he recalls all the 
exceeding riches of love which his Saviour has poured 
forth upon him, and feels that all the world would be too 
little to lose for the sake of knowing and loving Him. 

On the following night they reached Marseilles. They 



202 The Huguenot Family, 


were marched to the convict barracks. The officer, for 
the sake of the Baron de Eaynal, ordered that Eugene 
should be freed from his chain, and put in a small cell 
by himself. It was a poor place, six feet square, with no 
more light or air than could find their way from the 
passage through a narrow opening above the door, with 
no furniture except a log of wood placed to serve as 
his pillow. But such as it was, its quietness and peace 
made it seem a paradise to the weary boy. He wished 
to share it with one to whom it would be as welcome as 
to him. He eagerly asked his guard to allow the old 
man to come there too. Aiid when the other told him 
gruffly to mind his own business, and take his own 
good things and be thankful, he offered to take the old 
man’s place, and holding out his small thin wrist, he 
said imploringly— 

“ Put his chain on me, I can bear it better than he 
can. Bring him here, and allow me to sleep beside 
'-his comrade.” He represses a slight shudder as he 
speaks, for he has been told that the crime for which 
that comrade suffers, was the murder of his own child. 

The soldier looked at the boy curiously. 

“ You are a strange child,” he said; “ I’ll see what 
I can do for you. Is the man any friend of yours ?” 

“ Ho ; but he is the friend of Jesus, and Jesus loves 
him,” he answered simply. 

The soldier looked at him again iwith a curious won¬ 
dering look, and then went away. In a few minutes he 
reopened the door, and pushed the old man in, saying— 

“ There, it is to thatjpawijre enfant you owe this 
favour. The pauvre petit wished to take your chain 
in your stead.” 

The old man’s step was very feeble. He staggered 



The Galley Slaves, 


203 


painfully, as if lie Lad been so long accustomed to Lis 
Leavy chain that Le-could not balance himself without 
it. He looked bewildered. His mind wandered. 
When Eugene went up to him, and timidly offered to 
take his hand, he drew back hastily. 

“ Who are you ? and why are you here ?” he asked 
in a startled tone. He almost fancied that it was the 
spirit of one of his own boys restored to- happy child¬ 
hood, as they came to him in his dreams. 

‘‘ I am Eugene de Blancard. They have sent me to 
the galleys because I would be a Huguenot.’' 

“ Thee ! thee to the galleys, poor babe !” he cried, 
his sense slowly returning to the present scene; and 
taking the child in his arms, he wept over him as he 
had never wept for his own sorrows. 

It was sweet to the forlorn boy to be thus mourned 
over and caressed. He clung to his aged friend as he 
might have done to his own grandfather. They sat 
down together on the log of wood. \ 

“ And thou didst wish to bear my chain for me, 
poor child!" the old man said, his mind for the first 
time taking in the meaning of the soldier’s words. 
“ How was that, my little one ? Why didst thou wish 
to do so 

“ Because Jesus loves you," he answered confidently. 

“ Jesus loves me. Yes, he does. Blessed Lord 
Jesus loves me !’’ the old man exclaimed, his withered 
face lighting up with confident joy, and he raised his 
hands and eyes towards heaven. “ And of thee, my 
child ?’’ he added after a few minutes of silent rapture, 
‘‘ Does Jesus Christ love thee too ?" 

“Ah yes. He does love me so much. I was a bad 
though tless boy, and did not care to hear about Christ, 



204 The Huguenot Family. 


or to think about Him. But He forgave me all that, 
all my sins, and took me in His arms, and has carried 
me in His bosom all the way. 0 how much he loves me T’ 

Eugene went on to tell his new friend his little story, 
and the other listened with all the simple interest of a 
child. With a child’s openness and garrulity he told 
Eugene about his children. By his enfeebled memory 
all their recent sufferings were forgotten, they presented 
themselves only as the merry little ones of bygone 
days, as such he spoke of them, as such Eugene thought 
of them, and he wondered whether they had learned to 
know Christ’s love, and whether they might be allowed 
to stay at their own happy home with the mother his 
friend spoke of as being with them, or whether she 
might not be forced to fly as his had been. Upon the 
pretty little fairy Lisa, of whom the old man spoke, his 
fancy particularly fixed, and he thought she must be 
something like his own Aimee. 

Before they lay down to sleep they sang a hymn to¬ 
gether, the old man’s feeble trembling notes blending 
strangely with the clear voice of the child. And then 
they knelt down together, and Eugene prayed. The 
old man could not have connected words or thoughts 
together, but he joined heartily in the child’s simple 
petitions. They were exactly suited to his case. So 
they lay down in each other’s arms. And, when the 
guard came next morning, he found Eugene in the 
sweet unbroken sleep of childhood, the old man in the 
still more unbroken sleep of death. His arm, stiff and 
cold, was still round the boy, and Eugene’s warm, 
flushed cheek lay close to the withered cheek of the 
dead, and his warm breath stirred the thin grey locks 
with a motion like life. It was a touching sight. The 



The Galley Slaves, 


205 


rude soldier’s heart was so moved that he used the 
utmost care and caution in lifting the sleeping child 
from his strange resting-place, so that he might not 
awake, and become aware without preparation of what 
had occurred. 

When he heard of it, Eugene shed a few bitter tears; 
but, young as he was, he had come to understand how 
death might be a relief, and his heart was very full of 
the meeting with his uncle. 

He was marched down to the quay at once, for the 
vessel was nearly ready to sail. Another band of con¬ 
victs was getting on board, and he stood for some time 
waiting his turn. He eagerly scanned the ship and 
its crew, looking for the one face he knew. It was 
an old vessel in bad repair, fit for nothing but the trans¬ 
port of convicts. The government, it was said, rather 
preferred old vessels for that purpose. The prisons, the 
galley ships, even the colonial settlements overflowed 
with heretic prisoners, and it was difficult to find ac¬ 
commodation for the hundreds weekly added to their 
numbers. So a vessel was every now and then filled 
with heretics alone—robbers and murderers must be 
better cared for—and, if it went to the bottom, why no 
great harm was done. 

Of course Eugene did not understand that such was 
the mode of reasoning about him and his fellow- 
voyagers; but he saw with pleasure that all the convicts 
marched into the vessel wore the same quiet, subdued 
expression, very different from some of the companions 
of his recent journey. At last came one, a tall, power¬ 
ful-looking man, with a noble countenance. Was it, 
could it be Uncle Hubert ? Ho, Uncle Hubert did not 
stoop so much. Uncle Hubert’s skin was not so yellow. 




206 The Huguenot Family, 


Uncle Hubert’s bair bad not one tinge of grey. And 
yet that step, that look, that eye. It was, it must be 
Uncle Hubert, only grown very old. And bis heart 
beat painfully quick and bigb as be watched him move 
slowly across the deck, and take the place pointed out 
to him. 

His own turn came at last. With a sort of breath¬ 
less expectation be suffered himself to be led over the 
gangway, and delivered up by bis former guards to 
those who were now to have the charge of him. Then, 
as the superintending officer paused a moment, as if 
surprised at the appearance of his new prisoner, the 
child fell on his knees before him, and raising his 
hands imploringly, he cried— 

“ Let me be with Uncle Hubert. Here,” drawing 
out the gold G-erard had given him, “will this pay for 
it ? It is all I have got. Will this be enough to get 
me a place beside Uncle Hubert ?” 

The officer looked bewildered, but he spoke gently 
to Eugene, and raised him from his knees. 

“ I know not how you got the gold, my child,” he 
said with a smile. “ It is a strange thing for a convict 
to possess. But you, pauvre enfant^ are a strange kind 
of convict. Keep it, and tell me who Uncle Hubert is, 
and where.” 

Eugene explained, received the desired permission, 
and bounded over the deck to his uncle’s side, his small 
form, his eager, springing step, his joyful voice forming 
a strange contrast to the haggard, drooping, silent 
figures among whom he passed. 

“ Uncle Hubert, Uncle Hubert,” he cried, “ I am to 
be with you I We are to be chained together; I am 
so glad!” 



The Galley Slaves. 


207 


Hubert stood where be bad been placed, bis arms 
crossed, bis bead bent a little forward, bis eye looking 
far, far away, as to some land of peace and rest. He 
started and look round, as tbe child seized bis band, 
with that glad “ Uncle Hubert.” For a moment he 
did not recognise him in bis convict’s dress. How 
could be think his Marie’s fondly cared-for boy could 
be there ? Then, as tbe repeated “ Uncle Hubert,” 
and tbe bright, familiar eyes looking up into bis, 
flashed conviction into bis mind, be staggered back, as 
if struck with a mortal wound, and sinking down on a 
bench behind him, be covered bis face with bis bands, 
and groaned aloud. 

Eugene sprang on to his knee, threw bis arms round 
bis neck, and strove to draw down bis bands. 

‘‘ You must not be vexed about me, dear Uncle 
Hubert,” be said. “ You know it is God who has 
sent us here, and it must be all right, for God loves 
us better than we can ever know. It is so good of God 
to send us in tbe same ship.” 

His uncle caught him in bis arms, and strained him 
to bis heart. He could not compose himself sufficiently 
to speak; but yet tbe child’s simple faith went to bis 
heart, and brought it strength and comfort. 

Their voyage was very comfortless. Tbe vessel 
was small, inconvenient, and terribly crowded. Hot 
more than half of tbe convicts could sleep under cover 
at a time. They bad to pass every alternate night on 
the deck, without shelter from tbe biting wind, from 
rain or snow, or tbe spray which, in rough weather, 
dashed quite over tbe ill-constructed ship. The miser¬ 
able den, down stairs, was, in its own way, nearly as un¬ 
comfortable as tbe open deck j and indeed, in fine mild 



208 


The Huguenot Family. 


weather, ranch more so. There was a great want of air 
and of space. The prisoners lay close together on the 
floor, and had literally not room to stretch themselves 
straight ont. Now and then they tried the plan of some 
standing while the others slept. But, weakened by 
disease and want of sufficient nourishment, and heavy 
with the unwholesome drowsiness engendered by the 
bad air, those standing were generally unable to keep 
awake, and often falling down in their sleep, severely 
injured themselves, and the friends on whom they 
fell, with their heavy chains. Had they been con¬ 
victs of the ordinary class their health could not have 
withstood such exposure, privation, and discomfort; 
but here there were no useless murmurs to aggravate 
their misery, and injure their health; and no fretful¬ 
ness towards their fellow-sufferers. Now and then 
bodily weakness might draw forth a few complaints, or 
constitutional infirmities of temper be shown in peevish¬ 
ness and irritability. But these were rare exceptions. 
In general, there was among them all one spirit of 
calm submission to a Father’s will, of cheerful accept¬ 
ance of every circumstance as from His hand, and of 
kind sympathy with fellow-sufferers. Here there was 
no distinction of rank. . The peasant and the noble, 
the unlettered mechanic and the man of genius and 
learning were united in one common fate, and closer 
still in one common faith, one common hope, with one 
Father, one Saviour, one Holy Spirit to provide for, 
to save, to comfort, and teach them. 

For the most part they were not unkindly treated, 
their uniform cheerful submission to their hardships 
softened the hearts and awoke the pity of their guards 
And if now and then, a surly fellow was inclined to 



TJie Galley Slaves, 


209 


vent on them the ill hnmonr his own discomforts had 
aroused, they knew how to make allowances, and were 
neither irritated nor indignant. They felt that the 
poor soldiers had no precious faith to sustain them, 
and that they could not hut feel it hard to he so 
wantonly sacrificed hy the government they had faith¬ 
fully served. 

For, in truth, the danger of their situation was not 
less than its hardship. The vessel was harely safe in 
calm seas, or for a short voyage. Three several storms 
had they passed through; three several times had 
captain and crew abandoned all hope; three seve¬ 
ral times had the near approach of death called forth 
from sailors or soldiers all the various manifestations of 
feeling, from hard, sullen indifierence to cries of terror 
and agonizing prayers for help to all the saints in the 
calendar; three several times had the God-fearing 
Huguenots opportunities of shewing how little they 
feared aught else, how calmly, ay, in some cases, 
how triumphantly they could welcome death in any 
form. 

They had passed through the storms, hut not scath- 
less. The vessel had leaked from the day they had 
left the harbour, and now incessant labour at the pumps 
could hardly keep her afloat. They had been driven 
out of their course, and their voyage so lengthened, 
that both food and water had become fearfully scanty. 
As may be supposed, the convicts’ portions of both 
were of the smallest, and the sufferings of hunger, 
thirst, and excessive fatigue at the pumps, were now 
laid upon them, to be borne with the same brave 
patience as all the others. 

Poor Eugene bore his share of all privation: al- 




210 


The Huguenot Family. 


though, through the tender care of his uncle, and the 
kind pity of all the convicts, it was made as light as 
possible. A drop of their precious water, a mouthful 
of their biscuit, were reserved by many, to be added to 
the boy’s scanty portion. His health and strength 
stood out wonderfully. Often as they lay on the open 
deck under the pelting rain, with no better cover than 
their scanty clothing, Hubert feared that his charge 
could hardly survive the night. And as he made him 
nestle ever closer to his bosom, and strove to shield 
him with his own body, he would think sadly that the 
morning light must show him the fading of this, his last 
treasure, his last tie to home and the bright past, the 
last earthly comfort he possessed. But each day found 
the boy in apparent health, though weak and thin. 
And his cheerfulness never flagged. With a child’s 
inexperience, he was the last to dread danger; with a 
child’s elasticity, the flrst to see hope ; with a child’s 
forgetfulness, he was spared much painful brooding 
over past happiness, and with a child’s want of fore¬ 
sight, much anticipation of future sorrow. He lived 
in God’s presence, basking in the sunshine of His love, 
and trusting entirely from hour to hour to His care and 
sovereign power over all things. 

“ Ah well, it is God who sends it, and He will give 
us His pitying love under it. His Spirit, that we may 
be able to bear it,” he would say, when some fresh 
danger or suffering arose to try their faith. And when 
there came a few hours of comparative peace, when 
the sun was bright, the sea calm, and the guard for 
the time kind, his heart would be fllled with precious, 
refreshing gratitude to the Father from whose loving- 
kindness all had been given. 



The Galley Slaves. 


211 


But now a fourtli storm arose, worse than any that 
had gone before. The vessel was dismasted. When 
the storm had passed, it lay an unmanageable log in 
the water. The captain had lost all reckoning of 
their position, and the food and water remaining could 
not be made to last more than one other day. Despair 
seized both crew and soldiers, and with despair total 
insubordination. Their ofiScers lost all control over 
them, and were forced to submit to their dictation. 

They resolved, so soon as the sea was calm enough, 
to take the boats. They hoped to be able to reach a 
cluster of islands they had passed on the previous even¬ 
ing. And, at any rate, they said, they should get rid 
of these cursed heretics, whose presence brought dis¬ 
aster and ruin, and the weight of whose chains was 
sufficient to sink the vessel. 

The captain did his best to dissuade them from such 
a cruel abandonment of men wholly dependent on'them, 
and was at first resolute not to be a party to it; but 
when he saw the men carry off the last morsel of food, 
the last drop of water, his fortitude gave way. The 
cruel death by famine he could not face, and he 
yielded to his men’s entreaties to go with them. He 
stipulated that the convicts should first be set free 
from their chains. This work of humanity was begun, 
but before it had proceeded far, the crews in the boats, 
alarmed at the appearance of a cloud, coming up before 
the wind, clamoured for an instant departure, and 
threatened to set out without those who did not come 
immediately. So the freed convicts were left to relieve 
their brethren as best they might. 

They stood on the deck, a grave, silent band, watch¬ 
ing the departure of their late masters, when, suddenly, 



212 


The Huguenot Family. 


as tlie last boat shoved off, loud and clear rose a song 
of praise from a sweet, childish voice. All in the boats 
looked up, startled and a little awed at such a sound 
in such a place and time. It was Eugene singing the 
107 th Psalm: “ Then they cried unto the Lord in their 
trouble, and He saved them out of their distresses.’^ 
He stood on the high poop of the vessel, his slight, 
boyish figure clearly seen against the sky, the heavy 
chain at wrist and ankle coming out in strong relief as 
he raised his clasped hands in the fervour of his feelings, 
and his upturned countenance beaming with a kind of 
holy triumph as he poured forth his whole soul in his 
song. 

One and another of his comrades took up the boy’s 
strain, and ever louder and fuller it swelled over the 
■waters. The sailors did not like it. It gave them a 
feeling between awe and self-reproach, and they rowed 
ever harder and harder, to get beyond the sound. 
They reached the islands in safety, after a hard day’s 
labour, but some of the softer-hearted declared to their 
dying day, that they could never forget the sight of 
that band of grave, composed men, looking after them, 
nor the sound of their psalm, as it followed them far 
over the sea. 

The song had ceased, and all stood for a few minutes 
silent, thoughtful; death was approaching swiftly, sure¬ 
ly; but it was an unspeakable relief that they were 
now to meet him in the company only of those to whom 
he had no sting. The last solemn moments of life were 
not to be disturbed by the terrors of men to whom 
this life was everything, or by the sullen despair and 
curses of the more hardened, who could even in such a 
situation dare to blaspheme. With the calm courage 



The Galley Slaves. 


213 


of Christians they looked their danger steadily in the 
face; but theirs was the true wise courage which 
caused them to help themselves, to use every exertion 
to better their condition, leaving the issue in the hands 
of the Lord. 

The first thing was to get rid of their chains. By a 
common impulse their child-companion was the first 
they freed. He gave a glad shout, “ I am free, I am 
free I” and seizing the chain, he heaved it overboard, 
bending down to hear its sullen plunge, and to watch 
the water closing over it. 

“ There you are gone, you hateful thinghe cried; 
then as he raised himself and caught his uncle’s eye 
fixed upon him with an expression of deep thought, 
almost of sadness, he added doubtingly, “ Perhaps I 
should not call it hateful. It was God who put it on 
me.” 

“ And was it not God who freed you from it, my 
boy ?” asked Hubert j “ you can praise Him for that, 
cannot you?” 

“ Ah! yes I can;” and again his voice rose exulting 
in the 103d Psalm, “ Bless the Lord, 0 my soul j and 
all that is within me, bless his holy name.” 

With as much regularity as if still under the disci¬ 
pline of their guards, the strong among the convicts 
formed themselves into bands to work at the pumps by 
turns. Some aged, and weak in health, were totally 
exempted, and every hour added to the number of this 
excepted band, as hunger, thirst, and fatigue rendered 
one and another unable for exertion. It was early 
morning when the boats departed, and wearily and 
heavily the hours of the long day dragged on, bringing 
no help, nor even the hope of any. 



214 


The Huguenot Family. 


It was niglit. Eugene lay alone on the deck, suffer¬ 
ing such agonies from hunger and thirst, as I hope 
none of my young readers may ever be able to imagine. 
In the first joy of recovered freedom, he had for a time 
forgotten his weakness and craving for food. But many 
suffering hours had passed since then, and he lay still, 
and in pain, hardly able to move or even to breathe. 
Hours passed in this manner—morning was near when 
his quiet dull feeling of exhaustion changed into a more 
painful state of restlessness and feverish excitement. 
His head grew giddy and confused, wild thoughts 
crowded in his mind, strange fearful imaginings took 
the form of realities. He felt frightened, and he was 
all alone. His uncle Hubert, as one of the strongest 
of the party, remained at the pumps, and the men who 
lay near the boy were too much exhausted to be able 
to encourage or comfort him, to speak to him, or even 
to understand when he spoke to them. 

“ Ah, I’m dying !” he cried, as he tried to rise and 
failed; “ and dying all alone, and I cannot think of 
anything, all is so strange, so wild. But,” laying him¬ 
self down again, and smiling faintly as the thought 
occurred, “ it does not much signify, my Lord Jesus 
Christ will think for me and take care of me; He has 
me in His arms, I am lying on His bosom, and need 
no one else,” and with that sweet smile still on his lips 
he fell asleep. 

He dreamed he was again at home ; he was ill, and 
his mother held him in her arms. They were under 
his favourite tree at the water-side. He saw its fresh 
green leaves, heard the wind rustling through them, 
felt the soft, cool, mossy grass, on which they sat and 
watched the bright river gliding so gently by. His 



The Galley Slaves. 


215 


mouth was parched, he asked for something to drink, 
Hortense and Aimee came at his call. They looked so 
bright and fair, like angels, with shining white gar¬ 
ments and pure silver wings, and they came up to him 
bearing baskets of delicious fruit and jars of cool drinks, 
and his mother took them and held them to his head; 
but ever as his lips parted to drink, an unseen hand 
seemed to draw him back, and not one drop could he 
get to cool his parched tongue. Then he saw his mo¬ 
ther's look of agonized anxiety and compassion, and he 
felt her tears drop faster and faster on his burning brow. 

“ It does me good, your tears are so cool,” he tried 
to say, and awoke. The cool drops were there in truth, 
his face, his hair, his clothes were wet with them. It 
was rain, God’s precious, blessed rain, as he called it. 
He opened his mouth to catch the drops, sucked up a 
little pool he found in a hole in the deck, and felt re¬ 
freshed. All his companions had been awakened in the 
same manner, and were busy collecting vessels to catch 
the precious fluid. 

Eugene was strengthened by his short sleep, and 
rose and went down the ladder to seek his uncle, that 
he might share in this treat. He met him coming 
away from the pump. He took Eugene in his arms, 
and strained him silently to his heart; after a few mi¬ 
nutes, he said solemnly— 

“ Death is very near now, my Eugene; we can no 
longer work at the pumps. The vessel is fast sinking !” 

Eugene shuddered. The slight relief aflbrded by the 
rain had so revived his hope that he felt all the moro 
painfully this sudden revulsion. 

‘‘ Cannot we ask God to help us, dear uncle ?” he 
whispered. 



216 


The Huguenot Family. 


And they knelt together at the foot of the ladder, 
and made their case known to Him in whose hands are 
the winds and waves. 

They rose, and went slowly np the ladder. As Hu¬ 
bert’s head came above the deck, he started, sprang 
quickly up the last steps, looked hurriedly round, and 
cried in a glad voice,— 

Land, land! 0 Lord, blessed be Thy name, while 
we were yet speaking Thou didst hear, before we called 
Thou didst answerand he took off his cap, and rever¬ 
ently bowed his head in adoring gratitude- 




CHAPTER XV. 


THE INDIANS. 



ES, it was land—they had drifted into a small 
through the dark hours of night. The 
man appointed to watch for land, or for pass- 
ing vessels, had been overcome by fatigue, 
and in the absence of light and of hope had 
fallen asleep. Like the others on deck, ho 
had been awakened by the shower ; but like 
them, too, his whole mind had been fixed upon 
quenching his fearful agony of thirst. And indeed up 
to this moment, the thick veil of rain had shut out all 
view ; but now it was passing away—the morning sun 
was shining out, and in its cheerful light lay the quiet 
shores of the bay on three sides of them. 

They had been driven to the shores of South America, 
but that of course they did not know then; all they 
could see was a narrow strip of soft smooth sand, and 
beyond it a range of low rScks and sand-hills, shutting 
out all view of the interior, save where a pretty broad 
river coming into the bay gave them a short vista up 
its banks, and afforded them glimpses of trees of strange 
but graceful and beautiful forms and foliage, specially 
beautiful to eyes which had so long rested only on the 
tossing sea. 

In the meantime the vessel was gently gliding on 



218 


The Huguenot Family. 


with the tide towards the land, when suddenly she 
struck upon a sand-bank, she staggered back as if try¬ 
ing to free herself, struck again, shivered, and then 
remained nearly motionless, the quieted waves breaking 
gently against her. There was a moment of confusion 
and alarm, but the eea wa-ij eo calm, the shore so near, 
it was difficult to realize danger. Hubert had been 
coming more and more to take the lead among them, 
and to him all looked for counsel he found it difficult to 
give. For himself, he could easily swim to shore even 
with Eugene to support, but he knew not what sharks 
or other dangerous inhabitants these seas might con¬ 
tain. Hot more than half his companions could swim 
at all; few even of that half had strength now to swim 
so far, while many were too utterly exhausted to do 
more than raise their heads, to gaze with longing eyes 
upon the land which promised so much, and yet seemed 
so unattainable. 

While he considered all these difficulties, he observed 
for the first time a group of men on the heights watch¬ 
ing the vessel. They were tall in stature, dark in 
skin, and nearly naked. As Hubert looked at them, 
they began to move along the ridge of rock with a pe¬ 
culiarly dignified, deliberate step, and one by one dis¬ 
appeared down a declivity. The convicts watched 
anxiously, and in a few minutes a number of canoes 
were seen coming round a point of land from the direc¬ 
tion in which the men had disappeared, and making 
for the vessel. 

Eugene was by his uncle^s side. He eyed the dark, 
savage-looking men with some suspicion, and asked 
Hubert if he were not afraid of them. 

The hearts of all men are in the hands of the Lord, 



The Indians. 


219 


my boy,” he answered, “ as well as the winds of heaven 
and the waves of the sea. He who has saved us from 
the one, can save us from the other alsoand the boy’s 
fears were calmed. 

The canoes were now very near, they were headed 
by a large highly ornamented one, in which lay an 
elderly man of grave aspect and dignified demeanour. 
"When within a short distance from the ship, at a signal 
from him, the men ceased paddling. He rose, display¬ 
ing a fine handsome person, and addressed the convicts 
in a strange, very musical language. When he found 
he was not understood, he had recourse to signs. He 
seemed to ask their object in coming there. 

Hubert had fastened a white cloth to a spar, and 
waved it in token of peaceful intentions. He bowed 
low, laid his hand on his heart, shewed his empty hands, 
and used every gesture he could think of to manifest 
harmlessness, and a wish for amity. 

The Indian chief pointed over' the sea, and looked 
the inquiry, “ Had they come far 

Hubert bowed assent. 

Another motion, implying, “ Did they mean to go 
farther?” 

Hubert made his companions separate, so as to shew 
the wrecked state of their vessel. 

' But this did not seem to convey any very clear idea 
to the Indian’s mind. In truth he had never seen a 
ship before, and looked upon this as merely a clumsy 
kind of large canoe. Supposing that the vessel having 
struck on the sand-bank was the only difficulty, he 
tried to encourage its owners by signs that it would 
float off again at the high tide. 

Hubert then endeavoured to go through the panto- 



220 


The Huguenot Family, 


mime of a storm succeeded by the sinking of the ship, 
and the drowning of its inmates. 

The other understood him with surprising quickness. 
He beckoned the other canoes to approach. They had 
been waiting at a respectful distance. A consultation 
was held. Then the chief turned again to Hubert, 
and made a sign towards the land, as if inquiring if 
they should like to go there. 

Hubert bowed low with an expression of assent 
and gratitude. The chief spoke a few words. A 
canoe came up to the side of the vessel, received on 
board a certain number of the convicts, rowed off, and 
its place was taken by another. In this manner, in 
perfect order, and nearly total silence, the whole con¬ 
victs were taken on shore. Hubert and Eugene were 
the last. Several of his companions were nearly help¬ 
less, and Hubert remained to superintend the difficult 
business of lowering them into the boats. 

As each canoe reached the shore, the men were led 
up to a particular spot where they were all gathered 
together, guarded by Indians, bearing strange-looking 
clubs and long lances. The chief’s canoe had borne 
no part in carrying the men to land. Ho had gone 
first of all, and taking up his position on a low rock, 
had watched the whole proceedings in grave silence. 

When all were collected, he rose and led the way 
up a rude flight of steps, to the heights from which he 
had first observed the vessel. The convicts were made 
to understand that they were to follow; and those who 
were too weak to obey were supported, or wholly car¬ 
ried by the natives, as their several states of exhaus¬ 
tion required. 

From the heights they obtained a view over a wide 



The Indians. 


221 


tract of fertile, gently undulating country. Close to 
them was an encampment, or village composed of mud 
huts, each shaded by one or more palm-trees; and 
large fields of maize, stretching away on every side, 
spoke a more settled mode of life than the Frenchmen 
had fancied it likely their new friends would lead. 

Each owner of a hut led into it one, two, or three of 
the guests, according to the accommodation he could 
afibrd. A number of women and children were about 
the doors, and gazed upon the new comers with great 
but restrained anxiety. The wan, haggard looks, and 
feeble gait of all, and the total prostration and help¬ 
lessness of some of the party, seemed to excite the 
women’s compassion. And when nubert, as spokes¬ 
man, or rather signsman, contrived to make them 
understand how long it was since they had tasted food, 
the squaws hastened to set before them the best they 
had to give. 

Milk in various forms to drink, fresh fish broiled on 
the coals, parched corn, and a kind of soup-pudding, or 
pudding-soup of maize to eat, formed a delicious feast 
to our poor mariners. Eugene could have eaten and 
drunk everything that was set before him; but his 
watchful uncle was too wise to allow him more than a 
small quantity of both food and drink, and the boy who 
used to be so wilful, yielded a quiet obedience to even 
such painful restraint. He found his reward in total 
exemption from the sufferings over-indulgence brought 
upon some of his less prudent, or perhaps more ignorant 
companions. 

By the time the meal was discussed, the kind squaws 
had spread for them beds of dried grass, on which they 
were glad to stretch their wearied limbs. The men 



222 


The Huguenot Family, 


and women of the village went out to their ov/n occu¬ 
pations, leaving their guests to sleep in peace, with 
only a few men who were appointed to watch them. 

Eugene, Hubert, and another of the convicts, shared 
the same bed. The boy was the first to awake. He 
had enjoyed more rest, and had endured less fatigue, 
than the others during the last few nights. He rose 
softly, and stole out of the hut to explore the strange 
country. The men on guard stood, or sat at their 
various posts, patient, motionless. With real intent¬ 
ness, but with the apparent indifference suitable to 
their ideas of dignity, they watched Eugene’s every 
movement, while seeming not even to see him. He 
took little notice of them. There was a group of men 
round the sachem, under a large tree. They seemed 
in consultation; and guessing that it might be about 
himself and his friends, Eugene, with instinctive deli¬ 
cacy kept aloof, that he might not even seem to 
intrude. 

He walked to the heights overlooking the sea. A 
thrill of interest and strong emotion ran through him, 
as he looked out over the waves that had so nearly been 
his grave. Their vessel was almost hid. The tide 
was nearly fall. The water covered the deck. No¬ 
thing was visible except the tops of the broken masts. 
Eugene’s eyes filled at the thought of what might have 
been their fate, and of the Lord’s goodness in rescuing 
them from it. 

His meditations were interrupted by a light touch 
on his shoulder. He looked round, and saw an elderly 
Indian of pleasant countenance beside him. This 
man’s life had been full of adventure. Many years be¬ 
fore he had been taken prisoner, and carried far north 



The Indians. 


223 


Ly a hostile tribe. Having escaped from them be was 
tracking his way homeward, when he was made prisoner 
a second time, this time by a boat’s crew come ashore in 
search of water, from an English vessel cruising along 
the coast. The captain of the vessel took the Indian with 
him, intending to teach him his own language, that he 
might act as interpreter if they met others of his na¬ 
tion. After many wanderings, the man was finally 
landed at Massachusetts. The Puritan settlers of that 
province were beginning to take an interest in tbe be¬ 
nighted natives of the land. He was kindly treated, 
acquired a knowledge of their customs, language, and 
some dim ideas of their religion. He had made his 
way to his own people some years before this time, had 
lost a good deal of the knowledge he had acquired, but 
could still speak a little English. He had been absent 
in the morning, but had been hastily seni for, in order 
to act as interpreter. 

“ lEoam-of-the-Sea,’’ he said, touching himself; and 
then Eugene, “Who you?” 

Eugene understood English, though he could not 
speak it well. One of the monks of Lamont had come 
from England, and had taken a pleasure in teaching the 
boy his language. 

“ I am Eugene de Blancard,” he answered. 

The Indian tried to repeat it, exciting the boy’s 
merriment by his failures. He looked a little grave, 
and continued the conversation by again pointing to 
himself, and saying— 

“ I Indian, and you ?” 

“ French boy,” said Eugene. 

“ French I” he did not understand that very well, 



224 


The Huguenot Family, 


but pointing to the sea, be asked, “ From far over tbe 
waters 

Eugene nodded assent. 

“ And why come here?’^ 

“ Tbe King made us come. He sent us in bis sbip.” 

“ Tbe King” was a title tbe Indian understood, but 
be asked,— 

“ You no want to come then. How King make ?” 

Eugene showed tbe deep scars imprinted by tbe 
chain on bis wrist; and partly by words, partly by ges¬ 
tures, made tbe other understand how they bad been 
treated. Tbe answer to tbe next question of, “ What 
for King do so ?” required more command of tbe Eng¬ 
lish language than he possessed, and be referred the 
Indian to his uncle, who now joined them, having come 
to seek Eugene. 

Finding that the man bad some understanding of 
whom be meant by tbe word God, or great Spirit, as 
Foam-of-tbe-Sea called Him, Hubert, in a few simpU 
words, explained that God bad commanded His children 
to worship Him in a certain manner, that their King 
bad forbidden them to do so, and that because they 
chose to obey God rather than man, tbe King bad been 
angry, bad put chains on them, and sent them away 
from their home and country. 

Tbe Indian listened with great interest, and with a 
single emphatic “ good,” at tbe close of tbe narrative, 
went back to tbe chiefs. Hubert and Eugene were 
now joined by a good many of their friends, and all 
stood watching tbe group under tbe tree, feeling bow 
much their fate might depend upon tbe reception their 
story might meet with. 




The Indians. 


225 


Foam-of-tlie-Sea seemed to repeat what he had 
heard with mnch animation. A murmur ran round the 
assembly. The chief rose, and made a short speech, 
which was apparently received with cordial approba¬ 
tion. Foam-of-the-Sea again approached the French¬ 
men, and told them to accompany him into the circle 
of chiefs. 

The Sachem had sat down again. But when they 
were brought before him, he rose, and advancing with 
grace and dignity to Hubert, he took his hand, and 
spoke a few words in his soft, musical tongue. Foam- 
of-the-Sea interpreted. 

“We are glad to see our white brethren. We are 
glad our white brothers are obedient to the Great 
Spirit. If our white brothers will stay with us, w’e 
will give them lands, and help them to build wigwams, 
and make canoes, and we will give them maize to sow 
in their fields. Are our white brothers content?” 

They could do no otherwise than accept so generous 
an offer. The pipe of peace was lighted and handed 
round ; and then the Sachem led the way to the spot 
he purposed to give to his new friends. It was beauti¬ 
fully situated on the banks of the river, near enough 
the Indians’ village for all purposes of protection and 
mutual assistance, distant enough to insure the con¬ 
victs a certain amount of quietness, and freedom to 
observe their own customs without molestation. 

The Sachem’s people nobly fulfilled his promises. 
Huts were erected in a surprisingly short time, and 
ample supplies of food of every kind poured in upon 
them. The poor shipwrecked mariners were soon 
most comfortably housed, their own ingenuity and 
mechanical skill supplying them with many articles of 



226 


The Huguenot Family. 


convenience and ornament, of which the Indians were 
destitute. A strong feeling of amity speedily sprang 
up between the two parties, which was strengthened 
by a constant interchange of kind offices. The Indians 
taught the French to hunt, to make canoes and to 
manage them ; and the French instructed the Indians 
in many of the arts of civilized life, and gave them a 
knowledge of that religion for which they had been 
willing to sacrifice so much.* 

* See Peyrault’s History for the facts of a company of Hugue¬ 
not convicts being wrecked on the coast of South America, and 
most hospitably received by an Indian Sachem, whose sympathy 
and respect were powerfully awakened on learning the cause of 
their banishment from their native land. 




CHAPTER XVL 


THE EMBAEKATIOIT. 

E are back again in France. I must take 
^ you once more on board a ship. Theodore 
and Marie have reached Kouen in safety. 
They were here obliged to part from their 
5 kind gipsy friends. Zeena said her pre¬ 
sence could only increase the dangers of 
their passage through the town. Both par¬ 
ties were sorry to separate: they had be¬ 
come much attached to each other. The Blancards 
tried to persuade Zeena and her husband to accept of 
some of Marie’s jewels, as a token of their regard more 
than as payment for their services. But they posi¬ 
tively refused. Nay, further, learning that in the 
hurry of changing dresses at his first setting out, 
Theodore had neglected to secure the jewels and gold 
Marie had concealed for him, they pledged themselves 
to find means to restore them to him; and this pledge 
they took much trouble to keep. 

Zeena had procured them more suitable dresses, 
Theodore now appearing as a mechanic travelling with 
his wife and child in search of employment. She 
carefully inspected them to make sure all was correct 
and proper; then she, her husband, and Eobin, bade 
them a most affectionate farewell, and saw them enter 
the town. 






228 


The Huguenot Family. 


They felt painfully helpless, thus deprived of those 
on whose wisdom and guidance they had for so long a 
time depended. By Zeena’s advice they went straight 
to a humble kind of inn near the quay. Here Theo¬ 
dore left Marie and Aimee, while he went out to get 
the necessary information and make the necessary 
arrangements. It was long before he succeeded. For, 
too conscious of his position and circumstances, he was 
haunted with a vague fancy that every one he met had 
penetrated his disguise, and he wandered about for 
more than two hours, before he could make up his 
mind to address any one. When at last he did take 
courage to inquire about vessels from a sailor on the 
quay, his manner was so timid and hesitating, that 
the man at once guessed the truth, or at least suffi¬ 
ciently near it, to have been dangerous to Theodore, 
had the other not been an honest English sailor, 
whose whole warm heart was engaged on the side of 
the Huguenots. 

He gave Theodore all the information he could 
desire, told him of a Hutch vessel in the harbour, in 
which he knew the requisite accommodation could be 
procured, and offered to row him out to it at once, 
that he might make his own bargain with the captain. 

No sooner said than done. In a wonderfully short 
space Theodore had visited the vessel; had arranged 
that himself, his wife, and child, should come on board 
soon after dark ; was safe at the quay; had made an 
appointment with his English friend for seven o’clock 
at night, when the sailor undertook to take them all 
out in secrecy and safety; and had returned to the inn 
to wait the approach of night with what patience he 
could muster. 



The Embarkation. 


229 


Marie had had a slight alarm in his absence,—a 
party of gendarmes had come to search the house 
for suspicious characters. But in this matter was seen 
the tender care of the Lord who had hitherto watched 
over their safety. Tiieodore was absent, Aimee asleep, 
and Marie, by far the most self-possessed member of 
the party, the only one who was seen. 

She met their scrutinizing glance with an air of such 
quiet indifference as at once disarmed their suspicions. 
She answered the few questions they asked with all 
readiness,—told from what part of the country they had 
come, the length of time they had taken to the journey, 
a time which agreed excellently with their supposed 
object of seeking for work,—said truly, she did not know 
where they meant to go, or what to do next, that her 
husband had gone out to make inquiries before they 
should fix their plans, and that she expected him back 
every minute; and she glanced up from her work, of 
mending her child’s frock, and looked towards the door, 
as if for him, with the most natural air in the world. 
They left her perfectly satisfied. 

Night came. They reached the quay unobserved, 
save by one dark figure whom they did not see. It was 
Gerard de Kaynal. The English sailor was punctual, 
piloted them skilfully through the numerous vessels in 
the harbour, and, with much satisfaction, saw them 
safely on board their own. 

They were kindly received by the Captain. He 
told them his cargo was all made up, his sails in order, 
his ship riding with a single anchor, everything ready 
to sail early the following morning, by which time he 
hoped to have on board his last supply of provisions, for 
which alone he was waiting. 



230 


The Huguenot Family, 


They found a number of refugees in the ship; some . 
new arrivals like themselves, others who had been for 
many days in concealment in the ark of refuge. They 
were obliged to remain below deck all day, but were 
permitted to come up and breathe the fresh air as soon 
as it was dark ; and many a group Marie and Theodore 
met, walking about, and rejoicing in the prospect of 
freedom on the morrow. 

The Blancards sat a little apart from the others; 
Aimee more than half asleep, her father and mother 
silently luxuriating in the perfect rest to both body and 
mind after their late fatigues and anxieties. Suddenly 
the captain appeared among them. His manner was 
composed and deliberate as usual, but the news he 
came to tell was startling. 

He had been watching lights on the quay, he said, 
and had made out that a party of gendarmes were 
coming off in a boat. His ship might be the object, 
and, therefore, it would be advisable, that all suspicious 
characters should be concealed. 

As there was not one of his passengers who did not 
come under this head, they all at once prepared to 
obey his directions. He led them down into the hold. 
His cargo had been so packed as to leave a consider¬ 
able space at the back, expressly intended for conceal¬ 
ment. A narrow opening had been left among the 
huge barrels and boxes, and through it the refugees 
passed in single file. 

The space was small for so many. As they stood 
closely pressed together, there was not room for any 
change of posture, any motion to relieve the wearied- 
ness of standing so long. But as I said of the convicts, 
there were no murmurs^ no selfish crowding, or squeez- 



The JEmbarkation. 231 


iDg others. Each seemed only anxious to accommo¬ 
date the rest. The natural politeness of the French 
people was aided by the feeling that it was for a com¬ 
mon cause they suffered, that it was a common Lord 
they served. 

When all were in, barrels and boxes were moved 
into the opening. The captain passed his light care¬ 
fully over the whole mass, to make sure all was right, 
and then hastened np stairs to receive the guests, the 
splash of whose oars was now heard very near. 

Perfect stillness reigned through the large company of 
prisoners. Every faculty was absorbed in that of hear¬ 
ing. A tread of heavy feet on the deck, the sound of 
imperious voices. They were then really come. A 
long, patient kind of breath was drawn, as if announ¬ 
cing that one faint hope had vanished, and again all 
stood silent and patient, watching the course of the 
search. They could trace it by the sound, down into 
the captain’s cabin, into the sleeping places of the men. 
And hark! what sound was that ? Yes, the hatch is 
raised. They are coming down into the hold. A 
slight thrill ran through the whole assembly. The 
great moment of trial was come. Marie felt the arm on 
which she leaned tremble a little. 

“ The Lord shall hide us under the shadow of His 
wings,” she whispered. 

Aimee was clinging to her mother’s knees, hiding 
her face in her dress. She heard the words. They 
reminded her of the well. They encouraged her, 
and, at the same time, gave her a feeling of awe. If 
the Lord was to hide them under the shadow of His 
wings, how near must He be to them! And this feeling 
kept her more still than anything else could have done. 



232 


The Huguenot Family. 


The prisoners could see the flashing of the lights 
carried by the soldiers, could even now and then 
through the crevices distinguish the forms of the 
searchers. The Captain’s quiet voice was heard. 

“You see there is nothing here except barrels and 
boxes.” 

“ And how do T know what may be behind these 
barrels and boxes ? Set to work, men, every one must 
be moved.” 

Another slight tremor seemed to shake the whole 
company, but was instantly quieted. They were in 
the Lord’s hands, and, still and patient, they waited the 
issue which He might choose to send. 

If the soldiers had hit upon the opening by which 
the prisoners had entered, their task would have been 
comparatively soon over. But the sailors, who helped 
them to remove the casks, took good care to make the 
business as tedious as possible. Barrel after barrel, 
box after box, were removed, and now they were very 
near. The prisoners seemed to hold their breath in 
expectation. 

“ Ah, ha! I see something; we have found the nest 
at last!” cried one of the soldiers, as they came to the 
last barrier between pursuers and pursued. 

Marie started and turned pale at the sound. It wal> 
the voice of Caspar, the man who had been the chief 
agent in the cruelty which had ended in the apostasy 
of her husband, in the death of her child. She stood 
directly behind the last cask which was removed. It 
was her arm Caspar seized, as he sprang forward with 
another exulting shout. He raised the lantern to her 
face, and recognised her instantly. 

“ Ah, ha I” he cried triumphantly, “ I have you 




The Emharhatibn. 233 


again. A gallant Baron interfered between us last time. 
But wbo is there to help you now 

“ The Lord God Almighty, who doetb according to 
His will in the army of heaven, and among the inhabi¬ 
tants of the earth,she answered, looking him steadily 
in the face. 

A sneer curled his lips, but was instantly changed 
into a look of startled surprise. The vessel had given 
a plunge. There was a slight rocking from side to 
side, and then all became aware that she was moving 
swiftly through the water. The commanding officer 
and his men, with fearful curses, rushed to the ladder 
leading to the deck. But the hatches were closed, and 
not the slightest notice was taken of all their threats, 
remonstrances, and entreaties. They were now the 
prisoners, and must bear their confinement with what 
patience they could muster. 

So soon as the Dutch captain found that his refugees 
were likely to be discovered, he returned to the deck, 
and quietly took the only measures that remained to 
insure both their safety and his own. Fully aware of 
his dangerous position, he always kept his vessel in 
such a condition as to be able to sail on the shortest 
notice. He had not yet got all his provisions on board. 
But it was better, he thought, to run the risk of a little 
starvation on board his own ship, rather than meet the 
same fate in a French prison. He cast off his anchor. 
His men in perfect silence loosened the sails. The 
breeze was favourable, and the gallant little vessel 
sailed out of the harbour in grand style, as if conscious 
how triumphantly her master had outwitted those who 
had fancied the game entirely in their own hands. 
When the hatches were opened, and the soldiers re- 



234 


The Huguenot Family. 


leased, they were far out to sea, far beyond all hope of 
making their situation known, or of avoiding the fate 
which awaited them, that of being carried off to Hol¬ 
land, prisoners to the very men they had come to con¬ 
vey to prison.* 

In the. meantime, the refugees were pouring out the 
gratitude of their hearts to the Lord. One of their 
number, a venerable white-haired man, who had been 
the pastor of a Huguenot church, conducted their 
devotional exercises, and there was not one heart 
which did not join cordially in his fervent thanksgiv¬ 
ings and earnest prayers for grace to serve and glorify 
the Lord, who had so signally appeared for their de¬ 
liverance. 

Their voyage was as prosperous in its continuance 
as its commencement had been singular, and was too 
rapid to permit the scarcity of provisions to be felt. 

It was a bright winter afternoon when they arrived 
at Kotterdam. I should have told you before that 
Marie had learned from Gerard de Eaynal that the 
Lajous had by his advice arranged to wait at Eotter- 
dam until joined by the other members of their party. 
The hearts of the father and mother were full of im¬ 
patience to see their child. But the town was so 
crowded with refugee families, that to find her might 
have been a work of difficulty and must have been one 
of time, had it not been for Bernard. The warm-hearted 
old servant was nearly as impatient to see again his 
well-loved master and 'mistress, as they were to see 
their Hortense. Since his arrival he had spent most 
of his days on the quay, watching every vessel that 
came in. And Marie had barely put her foot on shore 

* Founded on fact. 



The Emharhation. 


235 


before sbe saw bis bonest beaming countenance, and 
read in it tbe answer to tbe question sbe could bardly 
find words to ask. Hortense was as well as possible, 
and tbeir arrival was all that was wanting to make ber 
perfectly bappy. 

As tbe poor refugees were burdened with no luggage, 
and bad already rewarded and thanked tbeir worthy 
Captain, they were ready at once to go with Bernard 
to a neat little cottage in tbe suburbs, where tbe Lajous 
bad established themselves. 

Hortense met them at tbe door. Sbe and ber play¬ 
mate, Lisa Lajou, bad been impatiently looking out for 
Bernard, whose services were required in some of tbeir 
sports. She bad seen him coming, but bad not recog¬ 
nised ber father and mother. She bad not realized tbe 
dress in which they might come; so sbe was waiting in 
tbe doorway, hoping that tbe strangers with Bernard 
would pass on, and leave ber in comfortable posses¬ 
sion of him. As they came near, tbe hearts of tbe 
parents were too full for speech, but Aimee’s prattling 
voice fell familiarly on ber sister’s ear. Hortense’s 
heart beat quick, ber cheeks flushed, sbe bent forward 
to listen. 

‘‘ But, Bernard, where is Hortense ?” was now dis¬ 
tinctly heard, and in an instant sbe was in ber mother’s 
arms. 

Few of the refugees were so comfortably accommodated 
as our friends. Pierre Lajou’s show bad succeeded so 
well, that instead of bis journey costing him anything, 
be bad been able to lay up a little money for tbe main¬ 
tenance of bis family on tbeir first arrival in a foreign 
land; and long before it was expended, be was so bappy 
as to obtain an excellent engagement as a gardener, 



236 


The Huguenot Family, 


for very high wages. Their cottage was as comfortable 
as possible, and its best room had been carefully re¬ 
served for the family of the Count, whom they still con¬ 
sidered as their liege lord and master. 

A meal, half dinner half supper, was quickly pre¬ 
pared, the very best that Jeanne Lajou could procure 
on such short notice, and Pierre and Bernard served 
with as much reverential attention as if they had 
been waiting upon the Count and Countess in their 
own chateau. 

So soon as the table was cleared, Bernard and the 
Lajous withdrew, and the little family were left to the 
full enjoyment of being once more together, and once 
more alone. 

Hortense's history was heard with deep emotion and 
interest; and great was the mother’s happiness to see 
how her child had grown in acquaintanceship with her 
God and Saviour during their separation. Simply and 
joyfully did Hortense refer every little incident to God’s 
care and love, and very constant and precious seemed 
to have been her sense of His presence. 

“ And, mamma, do you know Bernard has come to 
love Christ? He told me so; and he said,” speaking in 
a low voice, and with eyes brimming with tears of 
deep feeling, “ he said that I had helped him. That 
when he saw that I always seemed to be with Christ, 
and to be looking up to Him, he began to think—what 
if the Lord should really be so near ! and then he felt 
how sinful he was, and that made him so afraid, he 
could do nothing but hasten to Christ’s feet. And oh I 
mamma, Christ was so full of love that He heard Ber¬ 
nard the moment he called, and washed him in His 
blood, and gave him His Holy Spirit, so that ha was 



The Emharhation. 


237 


able to love God, and to call Him bis God and Saviour. 
Are you not glad, mamma?" 

Very glad, darling—glad that our good Bernard 
should now be the Lord’s servant, and glad that my 
little girl should have been so honoured of her Father 
as to be allowed to help in the work of making him so." 
And Marie kissed her fondly. At the same time she 
looked anxiously after her husband. He had started 
from his chair when Hortense began to speak of Ber¬ 
nard, and was now pacing the room with hurried s^spg 
and a gloomy brow. 

He had been tolerably cheerful during the few days 
they had journeyed together towards Eonen; but it had 
been a cheerfulness quite apart from religious peace—a 
cheerfulness proceeding only from the regular, whole¬ 
some exercise of their daily walk, and the distraction 
to his mind afforded by the many incidents they met 
with. Whenever Marie had tried to begin religious 
conversation, the old gloomy look had returned, and he 
had always avoided, as much as possible, giving her an 
opportunity of doing so. In the comparative repose 
and inaction of their voyage, his cheerfulness had gra¬ 
dually disappeared; and now she could read in his 
countenance an amount of despondency almost as great 
as before he left Blancard. 

She was glad when Hortense proposed to take Aimee 
to introduce her to her friend Lisa Lajou, and she was 
thus left alone with her husband. She went up to him, 
and gently passing her arm within bis, walked up and 
down the room with him once or twice without speak¬ 
ing. At last she said in a tremulous voice, her eyes 
filling with tears—“Dear, dear Theodore, will you not 
come to the Lord, who waiteth to be gracious ?" 



238 


The Huguenot Family. 


His answer startled her. After a mementos strug¬ 
gle with his feelings, he poured out his whole mind to 
her, and she then found that his diseased conscience 
was accusing him of a second great sin, in leaving his 
home to avoid the punishment which, as he said, Grod 
had sent upon him. 

“ Do not speak of it, Marie,’’ he cried passionately, 
when she tried to combat this false notion. “ If 1 had 
not loved wife and children better than the Lord, I 
never should have consented to save them at the ex¬ 
pense of again denying Him.” 

Marie tried to recall to his mind, that it was the 
very dread of denying the Lord which had induced 
him to fly ; but he would not listen to her. And she 
soon found that argument only strengthened him in his 
own opinion, and that she could, for the present, only 
help him by her prayers. 

When she went to the kitchen, to summon Hortense 
and Aimee, a bitter feeling of envy rose to her heart at 
the scene she witnessed. Jeanne Lajou sat by her hus¬ 
band’s side, with her children round her, and Pierre 
read to them from the Holy Bible, with a look and 
voice that told how straight every word went to his 
heart, and how much joy and refreshment he found in 
them. 

“ Why was he taken, and ray husband left ?” rose 
in Marie’s heart; and the sore questioning and conflict 
could only be stilled by earnest crying to the Lord who 
had saved her in so many temporal trials, and who now 
stood up for her help against enemies, worse than any 
she had yet met; even against the evil of her own 
faithless heart, and the temptations of Satan, her re¬ 
lentless adversary. 



CHAPTER XVII. 


PAULINE. 

s you may suppose, Marie was impatient to get 
to Amsterdam, that she might see her mother 
and sister. She found that the Lajous meant 
to go there also. They too expected to meet 
friends in Amsterdam, they said. This was 
true. But it was not their only reason for 
wishing to accompany the Blancards. They 
felt, that so long as the Count continued in his present 
melancholy, abstracted condition, their mistress would 
stand in need of all the help and comfort she could get. 
And they believed that in household matters, in look¬ 
ing after the children, and such like things, Jeanne 
Lajou could be of great use. 

Their estimate of Marie's need of help was not mis¬ 
taken. Poor Theodore was more of a burden than 
an assistance to her. His fancied sin in fleeing from 
persecution, was never absent from his mind. His 
morbid fancy brooded over it continually, and conti¬ 
nually aggravated his despondency, by exaggerating 
every detail of his sin, and drawing fearful pictures of 
God's fierce indignation against him. He could not 
bear the least reference to the past, the least hint of 
hope for the future. The day they arrived in Amster¬ 
dam, he happened to see a French gentleman he had 



240 


The Huguenot Family. 


once known, and, from that moment no persuasion could 
induce him to go out into the streets, lest he might 
be recognised. He knew, he said, how much all good 
men must despise him, and although his own contempt 
he must bear, he did not think it necessary to expose 
himself to the contempt of others. So Marie was forced 
to exert herself all the more, to arrange about the dis¬ 
posal of her jewels, and to make her search for her 
mother, with no other counsel or support than Bernard 
could give. 

The last business, seeking her mother, was the first 
attended to, and proved more difficult than she had 
expected. Ho one of whom she inquired knew, or had 
known the Marquise de Beauchardis, and she was be¬ 
ginning to think she had never reached Amsterdam, 
when she was directed to a physician of eminence in 
the town, who, she was told, knew every one. 

To him she went. He was a pleasant elderly man, 
and to Marie's great relief, spoke very good French. 
The want of a common language between herself and 
those to whom she had applied, had been a sore hinder- 
ance. How she could understand, and be understood 
with perfect ease. 

The doctor at once said he had known Madame la 
Marquise; he had, in fact, attended her on her death¬ 
bed. 

Death-bed! Then Marie was, indeed, an orphan. 
And the knowledge of the mournful truth was to reach 
her now, at the very time when her wearied heart was 
most earnestly longing for some one on whom to rest 
for sympathy and comfort, for some one to look up to 
for guidance and counsel. How, when the whole 
burden of her husband’s and children’s safety ' and 



Pauline. 


241 


welfare was laid upon her, and her spirit was ready to 
faint under the weight, now she was to hear, that in 
all the wide world there was not one to whom she could 
turn for help. And this to her who, a few short years 
ago, had hardly realized what the words^sorroi^;, care, 
anxiety, meant. It was a sore trial, and for a few 
minutes Marie felt as if it were more than she could 
bear. 

But the thought of her sister roused her to endur¬ 
ance, and called her from all contemplation of her own 
share in this affliction. For Pauline was weak- 
minded, and quite unfit to take care of herself, or to 
manage her own concerns. Marie trembled to ask 
what had become of her. 

The kind-hearted physician saw her anxiety, appre¬ 
ciated its cause, and hastened to relieve it. Made¬ 
moiselle, he assured her, was well taken care of and 
comfortable. Some of his own wealthy and benevolent 
country people had founded an asylum for the young 
girls of refugee families, who had been deprived of their 
natural protectors, and whose age, education, or habits 
of life, unfitted them for gaining their own livelihood.* 
Mademoiselle Pauline was there, and he could take 
Madame to see her whenever Madame chose. 

Whenever she chose ! Oh, she must go at once, 
without any delay. And though her knees trembled, 
from the emotion and fatigue she had passed through, 
she rose instantly and prepared to accompany him. 

They had not far to go. A short walk brought 
them to the place—a cheerful airy house, standing in 
a beautiful well-kept garden. Marie was led through 
a large hall, where the younger girls were engaged 

* See Weiss’s " History of the Protestant Refugees.” 



242 The Huguenot Family. 


with the tutors and governesses their age required. 
She was greatly pleased with the healthy cheerful 
looks of the young students, and the kindly manners 
of their instructors. She and her guides, the good 
doctor and the matron of the institution, a motherly 
kind woman, passed through this hall, and up to the 
upper storey, where there were a number of smaller 
rooms in which the elder girls could occupy themselves 
as they liked, and receive visits from their friends. 

In one of these was Pauline, busy at embroidery 
work, with about half-a-dozen girls about her own 
age. She looked up when the matron opened the 
door, with the placid smile Marie so well remembered, 
gazed for an instant doubtfully at her sister, and then 
sprang forward to throw herself in her arms, crying— 

“ Oh, dear Marie, how glad I am that God has 
brought you to me, as I asked Him to do 

Her heart was warm enough to make her enjoy to 
the full this meeting with her sister, while her intellect 
was too weal: to suggest any cause for surprise that it 
should take place then and there, any speculation 
about Marie's change of dress, or aboirt the way she 
had found her out. It was enough for Pauline that 
she had asked God to bring Marie, and that He had 
brought her. 

There was nothing disgusting in poor Pauline’s 
imbecility, With a small, slight figure, delicate fea¬ 
tures, the fair skin and large blue eyes of a Horman, 
she looked like a sweet, gentle child; and a gentle, 
docile, happy child she was, in mind and character. 
Foolish , in worldly things, in those things which con¬ 
cern our salvation she was wise beyond most. And 
the warmth of her love to her Saviour, the strength of 



Pauline, 


243 


her faith in Him, might have shamed many an old 
Christian in full possession of all his senses. 

She showed no curiosity about the cause of Marie’s 
being in Holland, but she asked eagerly for all the 
dear ones she had left in France, and shed bitter tears 
over the death of her father, and the exile of her 
brother, and the little nephew she remembered so affec¬ 
tionately. Her tears were however soon dried, and her 
mind diverted, like a little child’s, from her grief, when 
Marie and the kindly matron began to discuss when or 
how her little nieces should be brought to see her, or 
when she should go to see them. 

Marie felt some difficulty about Pauline. She could 
not bear that her sister should be a burden on the 
funds of so useful an institution, while she and her 
husband had means to support her, and while there 
were so many others who might require its assistance 
more than Pauline. But the matron readily removed 
these scruples. Mademoiselle de Beauchardis, she said, 
was no burden. Her beautiful embroidery brought 
more money to the institution than she cost it. She 
imparted her own exquisite skill to others, and infused 
into all her own spirit of cheerful industry. They 
should all be so sorry to lose their dear, good Pauline. 

And as Pauline seemed anxious to remain, and 
Marie knew not very well what comfort or accommo¬ 
dation she could offer her in her own home, the matter 
was so settled, for the present at least. 

Marie had arranged with the Lajous that the two 
families should inhabit the same house, and should 
share the household expenses between them. Marie 
had disposed of her jewels, and had realized a con¬ 
siderable sum by the sale, but so long as they knew 



244 


The Huguenot Family, 


not where or how other funds were to be procured, it 
was necessary to be economical in the expenditure of 
what they had. A servant was a luxury not to be 
thought of. Marie took upon herself as much house¬ 
hold work as Jeanne and Bernard would permit, and 
made up for her forced exemption from the heavier 
tasks, by inviting the young Lajous to share in the 
instruction she gave her own children. Profiting by 
Pauline’s example, she employed her spare moments on 
embroidery, which sold readily, and at a good price. 
Pierre was again in full employment, and well paid. 
A dealer in curiosities and knick-knacks engaged to 
give Bernard as much work in fine wood-carving as he 
could execute. So that altogether the resources of the 
family were fully adequate to their moderate wants. 

Although this mode of life was so different from what 
she had been accustomed to, Marie enjoyed great peace 
and contentment. She would have been quite happy 
had it not been for the two causes of anxiety which 
constantly weighed upon her. Her husband’s continued 
depression of spirits, and listless unhealthy inaction of 
body and mind, and the thoughts of her brother and 
child, of their probable fate, and probable present con¬ 
dition and sufferings. These two great troubles effec¬ 
tually banished her old gaiete de coeur^ but could not 
destroy the quiet resting spirit wherewith the Lord had 
blessed her during the last year or two. 

Never did any one better obey the command to re¬ 
joice in the Lord; and as all must find who do obey it, 
truly could she say, “ The joy of the Lord is my 
strength.” Realizing the exceeding riches of her Sa¬ 
viour’s grace, the minuteness of His care, the tender¬ 
ness of His love, the almightiness of His power, and 



PoAilme, 


245 


feeling her entire dependence on Him, she learned to 
lean upon Him all day long, to look to Him for guidance 
in daily difficulties, strength in daily duties, and sup¬ 
port under daily trials as entirely and trustingly as she 
had rested on Him for safety under the perils of her 
dangerous journey. 

Pauline was a great help to Marie in this matter of 
looking to the Lord in trifles, often so much more diffi¬ 
cult than looking to Him in great things. Poor Paul¬ 
ine, or rather happy Pauline!—of her it might indeed 
he said that she “ walked with God.” At all times, in 
all things, she kept Him before her eyes. The joy in 
His love was constant and unbroken, her confidence 
in Him like a child’s, entire and undoubting—like a 
child’s was her faith, simple and unreasoning. Unable 
to weigh the comparative value of things, it never oc¬ 
curred to her that anything could be too small to tell 
her loving Saviour; and by her simple confidence in His 
full and ready sympathy she honoured Him more than 
many a wise Christian who does not think a trouble too 
small to allow it to disturb his peace, and mar his ser¬ 
vice to the Lord, but yet, in the pride of his wisdom, 
judges it too trifling to be cast on that Lord who is the 
burden-bearer of His people. 





CHAPTER XT III. 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 

aeie’s peaceful life at Amsterdam was not 
to be of long"continuance. Theodore’s dull, 
listless despondency changed into a most 
painful restlessness. The near neighbour¬ 
hood of France troubled him by the me¬ 
mories it recalled; and even the safety 
and comparative comfort of his present po¬ 
sition increased his unhappiness, as making 
the banishment from his native land less of a sacrifice. 
Every comfort he enjoyed, every token of security 
which presented itself, increased his gloom by lessening 
his hope of atoning for past sin by present suffering. 

When this restlessness had reached its height, he 
heard unexpectedly of a company of French gentlemen 
who proposed to join together for the purchase of a 
vessel in which to convey themselves and families to 
North America. He caught eagerly at the plan. The 
dangers and privations it involved, rendered it only the 
mere attractive in his eyes; and that his wife and 
children must share these privations was hardly a draw¬ 
back, as he felt that their sufferings must always affect 
him more nearly than his own, and as he believed that 
a sinful regard for their safety had been the principal 
cause of his flying from the trials which he believed the 
Lord had meant him to endure. 




247 


Another Change. 


A new and powerful desire overcoming his nervous 
dislike to meet any of his countrymen, he sought out 
the principal movers of the scheme, and readily obtained 
their consent to join them. 

Marie heard of the arrangement with mingled feel¬ 
ings. Fully realizing all they might have to endure 
on the voyage, and in the unsettled country to which 
they were hound, she was yet careful to throw no ob¬ 
stacles in the way of a plan which had at least this 
recommendation, that it had aroused her husband to 
something of his old energy. She could not but regret 
the breaking up of her peaceful home ; but at the same 
time she could not but rejoice in the prospect of being 
nearer the colony to which her brother and Eugene had 
been sent. She recollected Gerard de Eaynahs hope that 
they might even effect their escape, and get to America; 
and she could not, by all the wise reasoning she em¬ 
ployed, altogether banish such hope from her own mind. 

Pauline wished to go with her sister ; and although 
she felt all the responsibility of taking her from her 
present safe and comfortable home, Marie could not re¬ 
fuse her request. 

Again the Lajous broke up their home and their 
plans to accompany their master and mistress on their 
new expedition. They alleged a desire to get quite 
away from France, a conviction that they should always 
feel restless so long as they were near it. But Marie 
understood them better now, and was fully aware that 
attachment to herself, and compassion for her unpro¬ 
tected condition had the greatest share in their resolu¬ 
tion. She was deeply grateful to them, and deeply 
grateful to her loving Father, who had sent her such 
warm, such trustworthy friends. 



248 


The Huguenot Family, 


The vessel was bought. It was an armed one, and 
all the male passengers were fully armed also. They 
were determined to prefer death to a French prison, or 
to the French galley-ships, and in the event of an en¬ 
counter with French men-of-war, had bound themselves 
by an oath never to yield. And so with many prayers 
for God’s protection and blessing, with a hearty and 
cheerful confidence in Him who is the Lord of hosts, of 
Him whom the waves and winds obey, they set sail.* 

I said too much when I said that Marie fully realized 
the dangers and privations of the voyage. They were 
far greater than she could have imagined. Soon after 
leaving port they were chased for the greater part of 
two days by a large French man-of-war, and were only 
saved by a dense fog which, baffling to their enemies, 
acted as a sure hiding-place to them, and enabled them 
behind its dark veil to pass their pursuers, and speed 
safely on their way. 

A few days after, they were forced to fight another 
French vessel, larger and better armed than their own. 
But the gallantry and resolution of gentlemen fighting 
for their wives and children, and the quiet courage of 
Christians trusting in the Lord, proved more than a 
match for the superior discipline and experience of the 
hired combatants. The king’s vessel was forced to re¬ 
tire, and again our friends pursued their course, rejoic¬ 
ing in and praising the Lord who had appeared for 
their help against the mighty. 

But the dangers from hostile vessels were not all they 
had to meet. They encountered terrible storms, and 
were driven far out of their course. Their provisions 
fell short, their water became bad, and sickness, that 

* See Weisa’s “ History of Protestant Refugees." 



Another Change. 


249 


usual accompaniment of bad and scanty food, and 
over-crowded cabins, was added to tbeir other sorrows. 
Many a brave spirit was bowed down under the pain 
of seeing the sufferings of wife and child, which he 
was powerless to relieve. Many a tender heart was 
wrung to its inmost core, as she saw the waves close over 
the dead bodies of the husband and children, who were 
all the more dear to her for the sufferings they had 
borne together. 

Our own particular friends had their full share of 
these sorrows. Of the party, Marie and Pauline were 
the only ones who escaped the distemper. All the 
others were more or less ill at the same time, and 
Marie and Pauline had to nurse them all. 

This was Marie’s darkest hour. Two of the Lajou 
children died, and the sight of their dying struggles, 
and of their dead bodies being committed to the deep, 
made Marie realize more fully the anguish which 
seemed to be in store for herself, 

Theodore was fearfully ill. His strength was ex¬ 
hausted, while the fever continued unabated. There 
was no physician on board, no one who had ever seen 
this particular distemper before, or knew how it should 
be treated. There were no remedies to apply, no 
medicines to allay the fever or to soothe pain, no 
nourishing food or cordials to keep up the strength. 
Ah, the misery of sitting helpless, hopeless, by a sick¬ 
bed, where nothing can be done, nothing tried, but the 
approach of death must be watched without any mea¬ 
sures being taken to save the loved one from his grasp. 

And yet this was not the most bitter sting of Marie’s 
affliction. That lay in the continued gloom of her hus¬ 
band’s mind. He retained entire possession of his 

R 




250 


The Huguenot Family. 


senses, but seemed to retain them only that his misery 
might be thereby increased. No ray of light and comfort 
would his darkened mind entertain} but with still, sullen 
despair; he watched the rapid approach of death, which 
must be to him the entrance into everlasting misery. 

And now the end seemed very near. Marie had been 
striving all night to bring him peace, to make him see 
the fulness of Christ's salvation, the freeness of His 
grace ; and worn out by the sore conflict, she had re¬ 
tired for a few moments to relieve her feelings by giving 
way to them without restraint. She believed herself 
alone, but suddenly a small hand was laid on her bowed 
head, and Pauline said in a tone half of surprise and 
half of reproach— 

“ Dear Marie, have you forgotten how much Christ 
loves you? Why should you be so cast down while 
Christ is beside you?” 

Hardly realizing to whom she spoke, Marie poured 
out the sorrows of her over-burdened heart, and told 
her sister all her fears for her husband. 

“ Ah!” said Pauline, with her placid smile, “ we 
must ask Jesus to see to this. We must tell Him all 
about poor Theodore, and He will help him.” 

“ How do you know He will ?” Marie asked almost 
bitterly. 

“ Because He loves to help the helpless.” 

The words, so confldently spoken, struck Marie. 

“ Pauline,” she said earnestly, “will you go and say 
that to Theodore ?” 

“ Say what, Marie ?” 

“ That Jesus Christ loves to help the helpless;’^ and 
soft tears rose to her eyes, as a fresh sense of her Sa¬ 
viour’s tender compassion arose in her heart. 



251 


Another Change. 

“ To be sure I will, Marie; but first, Marie, let us 
ask God to make Theodore listen and believe.” 

Marie obeyed the impulse of her sister’s hand. They 
knelt down together, and Pauline prayed as a child 
might have done—in simple words, and with full confi¬ 
dence of being heard. They went together to Theo¬ 
dore’s bedside, Pauline stepped up to him, took his 
hand, and fixing her large blue eyes on his face, she 
said solemnly— 

“ Theodore, I have a message from God for you. Do 
you not know that Jesus loves to help the helpless?” 

He gazed at her with a wistfulness that made Marie’s 
heart bound with hope. At least he was beginning to 
entertain a doubt. He turned that same wistful gaze 
upon her as if asking for confirmation of the faint glim¬ 
mer of hope. 

“ The Lord delighteth in mercy! He heareth the 
prayer of the destitute I He says, I come not to call the 
righteous, but sinners to repentance. The whole need 
not a physician, but they that are sick,” she said in¬ 
stantly. 

“ Ah, sick, sick indeed ! the whole head sick—the 
whole heart faint,” he said feebly, closing his eyes as 
if unable to bear the new light which was beginning 
to dawn upon him. 

And in truth the beauty of that light, and the hap¬ 
piness it involved, were great stumbling-blocks to his 
receiving it. He had for so long nursed his despair, 
and taken a kind of perverse pleasure in making out 
his case as bad as possible, that it was difficult for him 
now to do anything else; and perhaps no other view of 
tnith could have moved him; but this was exactly what 
he required. How he began to look upon mercy not 




252 


The Huguenot Family. 


merely as a gift too great to be given to a sinner like 
him, but as that in which the Lord delighted. He 
began to look upon his salvation, not merely as a hap¬ 
piness to himself, but as a glory to God. And his long 
continued unbelief was no longer in his eyes a source 
of misery to himself, a kind of just punishment for his 
great sin ; it was now a dishonouring of his Saviour, 
a slighting of His love, a limiting of His almighty 
power. Now he began to see how Christ might be 
more glorified by his pardon than by his condemnation ; 
and he was now able to take up many of the pleas of 
the Psalmist, to beg for mercy for God’s glory’s sake, 
to plead for pardon even on account of the greatness of 
his transgression. 

It seemed as if the fever of his mind had kept up the 
fever of his body, for so soon as the one was quieted, 
the other began to abate. His recovery was slow— 
under the circumstances it could hardly have been 
otherwise. Nature may be a very good physician, but 
in Theodore’s case she had no fair play. When she had 
provided him with recovered appetite, there was neither 
sufficient nor wholesome food wherewith to supply it. 
And when she had sent langour and drowsiness in aid 
of her prescription of quiet and sleep, a tossing creaking 
vessel, the suppressed groans of suffering companions, 
the more open complaints of poor starving children, or 
the irrepressible grief of those whom death had bereaved 
of their nearest and dearest, all combined to thwart her 
good intentions, and to leave her patient sleepless and 
unrefreshed. 

In rate of progress, mind and body kept fair pace. 
It was only by slow degrees that Theodore would 
admit light and comfort into his mind. It- was only by 



Another Change. 


253 


Blow degrees that he would suffer them to brighten and 
strengthen into that sure confidence which the Lord 
saw was necessary for the trying life before him. But 
even from the first, the great point was gained, when 
he was made to see that presumption lay, not in accept¬ 
ing, but in refusing that which the Lord freely gave, 
and that the best atonement he could make for his 
great sin, was to allow the Lord to get the glory of giv¬ 
ing him a full and free salvation. Starting from this 
point, his progress might be slow, but it must he sure. 

Of all the mercies Marie had received from the Lord 
since leaving home, none was so great as this. All 
trials and anxieties seemed light now that the great 
anxiety about her husband’s salvation was removed. 
And no discomfort, no privation seemed worth a mo¬ 
ment’s thought, now that she could see him receiving 
everything with cheerful submission, as from a loving 
Father’s hands, now that they were able to lighten 
each other’s burdens, to support each other’s strength 
by a return to their old habit of communing together 
of the Lord’s goodness and grace, of praying together 
for His support, and of praising Him together for all 
His mercies. Marie had hardly realized how bitterly 
she had felt the loss of this during the last two years, 
until now when she felt the full joy and comfort of its 
restoration, 

Theodore took especial pleasure, as body and mind 
grew stronger, in returning with Marie all the way by 
which the Lord had led them, and in marking that His 
temporal mercies to them were such a precious type of 
the love, care, and tender watchfulness, with which He 
bad led his soul through the dreary wilderness of un¬ 
belief, into the fair land of faith and confidence. He 



254 


The Huguenot Family. 


often dwelt with especial pleasure upon Marie^s fre¬ 
quent experience of the truth of the promise, “ He 
shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings 
shfdt thou trust,” and he used to say that nothing 
could so well describe his own feelings when he was 
brought to trust in Christ’s full salvation as this, that 
he had oeen made to know what it was to hide him¬ 
self under the shadov/ of his Saviour’s wings. 

As might have been expected under the circum¬ 
stances, Theodore’s strength was still very small when 
they arrived in America; and in all the fatigues of their 
landing and moving to their place of settlement, Marie 
had to take care of and support him rather than receive 
support from him. But the lightness, the joyfulness of 
her heart at the change in his feelings carried her 
through all, and even enabled her to keep up her spirits 
and cheerfulness under the darkness of their future 
prospects. 

Dark indeed they were, and many and sore were the 
sufferings through which the little colony passed, dur¬ 
ing the first six or eight months of their settlement. 
They had chosen what is now South Carolina, for their 
new home. Fertile as the land is now, one can hardly 
fancy what it was when the Huguenot settlers first 
took possession. Where our friends located themselves 
the whole ground seemed only a succession of swamps 
from the overflowing of the river. And to drain these 
swamps, to clear spaces for cultivation in the impene¬ 
trable forests, there was only a band of men, for the 
most part unused to manual labour, and now sorely 
weakened by starvation and disease. 

But the Huguenots were a strong-hearted, persever¬ 
ing people. No time was lost in useless murmurs. 




Another Change, 


255 


Each man set manfully to work, to do what he could, 
and each and all looked confidently to the Lord for 
help and blessing. Their trials and privations were 
sweetened by mutual sympathy and kindness, and 
lightened (ah! who can tell how much ?) by simple trust 
in the love and power of Him who ordered all things 
for them, of Him who doeth all things well. 

The want of provisions was the sorest burden they 
had to bear. Their vessel had brought out so many 
passengers, that they had been obliged to abandon their 
first purpose of carrying out with them stores for their 
maintenance in their new country, while the crops they 
must sow were coming up. And they had been forced 
to trust to merchant vessels which promised to follow 
them, and to bring supplies for their wants. So irre¬ 
gular was the arrival of these vessels, that for many 
months our poor colonists hardly ever knew the com¬ 
fort of a full meal. And many, and many a trying 
week was passed, during which the supply of food for 
each day was hardly enough to sustain life, and far, very 
far from being enough to strengthen the workers for 
the hard work they had to accomplish. But as I said 
before, bravely and patiently did they bear it all, help¬ 
ing and clinging to each other in kind, unselfish love, 
and resting trustingly on the Lord, into whose hands 
they had given themselves, and all dear to them. 

This peaceful trust in God was the great thing which 
enabled them to bear up under all their sufferings. 
But for it, both health and spirits must have given way. 
Of this they were fully aware, and gratefully did they 
acknowledge the Lord’s love in upholding their spirits 
as He had guarded their bodies from their enemies, and 
in leading their hearts to faith, ‘confidence, and peace. 




256 


The Huguenot Family, 


even as He had guided them through all their long and 
perilous journeys. 

The fortitude and cheerful patience of the women 
were above all affecting and admirable. Many of them 
were women of high rank, accustomed to every lux¬ 
ury, to be surrounded with crowds of attendants, to 
have everything done for them, even to the moving of 
their chair, or the carrying of their reticule. And yet 
here they were now, acting the part of true settlers’ 
wives or daughters, helping their fathers and husbands 
in their rough work, teaching themselves, or learning 
from whoever could teach them, all the arts and de¬ 
vices of household economy, by which they could con¬ 
tribute to the comfort of their families. 

Marie and Pauline had as much to do as any, per¬ 
haps more than most. At the time of landing, not 
one of the three males of the party had recovered the 
strength they had lost in their long illness. And even 
Jeanne, usually so indefatigable and efficient, was then 
so weak that she was fit for nothing but sitting in some 
sheltered corner, watching the children, keeping them 
out of mischief, or directing them in their efforts at 
usefulness, and now and then, perhaps, indulging her¬ 
self in fretting at her own uselessness, and at seeing 
Marie and Pauline labouring beyond their strength at 
tasks wholly unsuited for them, lifting heavy burdens, 
or handling tools all unfit for their small delicate hands. 

Pauline worked as hard as any; and if her head 
was not always very wise to direct herself or others, 
her hands were most ready and skilful to execute. 
And her childlike contentment and gaiety made her a 
real source of comfort to the family, as her simple child¬ 
like faith made her often their teacher and example. 



A nother Change. 


257 


One small log-hut was, for many months, made to 
suffice for both families. And very grateful they were 
to get its shelter before the cold of winter became quite 
insupportable. The shelter of bare walls it was, in 
literal truth, for furniture was a luxury not to be 
thought of, while so many more important matters 
pressed upon the time and attention of all. One can 
hardly fancy the delight all felt, the first night they 
slept on beds woven by Pauline's dexterous fingers, 
out of the long coarse grass and rushes which the chil¬ 
dren brought her from the marshes. And when Ber¬ 
nard, the most ingenious of the party, found time to 
make a rude table, and one or two chairs, they made 
quite a family ffite of the occasion, and laughingly de¬ 
clared that never had table or chairs been so prized 
before. 

Were no thoughts Sent back to Blancard, with its 
lofty halls, its splendid suite of rooms as splendidly fur¬ 
nished, its noble park, its extensive pleasure-grounds, 
and pleasant gardens ? When such thoughts did occur, 
as occur they must, regret was hardly the feeling they 
excited. The last twelve months in that once happy 
home had been so imbittered by the relentless system of 
espionage under which they had lived, by the gloom of 
poor Theodore's darkened mind, and by all the anxious 
thoughts of the future, that Marie could never think of 
them without a shudder, and without realizing all the 
preciousness of present freedom of thought and action. 
While to Theodore, his restoration to God's favour 
and blessing had brought such an ever-flowing spring 
of happiness, had shed such a bright light round his 
daily path, that regret for anything in the past was to 
him an impossibility. 



CHAPTER XIX. 


A MEETma 

ouRAGE, my boy, we are near the end now; 
but the journey has been too much for you. 
I wish I had left you behind with our 
friends.'' So said one of three travellers, 
who were making their way through the 
tangled forest, bordering the settlement to 
which more than four years ago we con¬ 
ducted our French friends. The person ad¬ 
dressed was a tall, handsome boy about fifteen. He 
turned with a bright smile to his comrade as he an¬ 
swered— 

“ Leave me behind ? How could you have done it ? 
How could I have stayed ? And as to fatigue, see, I 
can beat you yet," and he passed the first speaker and 
went on in front, first looking back and laughing in 
boyish triumph. Fatigued as he was, his step was light 
and elastic, and spoke of limbs inured to exercise, as 
plainly as did his handsome brown cheek of free expo¬ 
sure to sun and wind. 

The third member of the party was an Indian, with 
all the characteristics of his race. Although much less 
fatigued than his companions, the stillness and indiffer¬ 
ence of his demeanour were strongly contrasted with 
their eager, ever anxious interest, as they glanced in¬ 
cessantly from side to side, or strove to pierce through 



A Meeting. 


259 


the leafy screen in front, impatient to catch the first 
glimpse of the object of their pursuit. 

And who are these two companions of the Indian ? 
Ah, I can read in the sparkling eyes of my young 
friends that the answer is unnecessary. Yes, you are 
right, they are Hubert and Eugene. Kindly and hos¬ 
pitably as the exiles had been treated by the Indians, 
and heartily as they enjoyed the freedom of their forest 
life, as contrasted with what might have been their 
position in the convict settlement, still we cannot but 
suppose that a life among barbarians was not altogether 
to the taste of cultivated, highly educated men, as most 
of them were. We cannot but suppose that they longed 
for renewed intercourse with men of like habits, pur¬ 
suits, and education as themselves, that their heart 
thirsted for intelligence from their native land—that 
land still so dear, in spite of all they had suffered in 
it,—or intelligence of their brother Huguenots, and 
above all for intelligence of the many nearest and 
dearest whom they had left behind, and of whose fate 
they were completely ignorant. 

So long as such deprivations seemed unavoidable, 
they bore them patiently and cheerfully; but when 
they came to understand from our old friend Foam-of- 
the-Sea, that a journey to the settled parts of North 
America was at least possible, then their longings in¬ 
creased in strength until they were irresistible, and to 
attempt the journey was at last determined upon. 

Between the forming the resolution and the putting 
it in practice, a long interval occurred. They found 
that their Indian hosts were beginning to feel interested 
in that religion which they saw exercised so much in¬ 
fluence over their white brothers, which made them so 



260 


The Huguenot Family. 


happy, so strong to endure, so diligent to labour, so 
honest, true, and kind. And Hubert and bis companions 
could not leave those to whom they were so much in¬ 
debted, without at least trying to give them a saving 
knowledge of the truth. So for months, nay for years, 
they waited on, patiently labouring and praying with 
all diligence and fervency, until they saw such fruit of 
their labours as made it appear safe to leave the work 
to other hands. 

The Indians were not even then to be left to them¬ 
selves. A good many of the exiles were too infirm, 
either from age or ill health, to brave the dangers and 
toils of such an expedition. It was only the strong 
who could undertake it; and even of those who did set 
out, a goodly number were discouraged by one week’s 
experience, lost heart, and returned to their late homes. 
The others persevered, and through much danger, fa¬ 
tigue, and sore privation, reached a small Dutch settle¬ 
ment about twenty miles from the one in which their 
countrymen were located. 

There they were most hospitably and kindly received, 
and provided with every comfort and refreshment their 
exhausted frames could desire. Here too, they learned 
for the first time of the arrival of their brother Hugue¬ 
nots on these shores. The enterprising French and 
the persevering Dutch had made a kind of path through 
the thick forests dividing the two settlements, for the 
mutual convenience of buying, selling, or exchanging; 
and a party of friendly Indians were ready to shew the 
strangers this path, and lead them to the French 
colony. 

With many of the worn-out travellers, however, the 
perfect comfort of their one night’s rest seemed to make 



A Meeting. 


261 


them more conscious of their fatigue, and when the fol¬ 
lowing morning dawned, few were able to set out with 
Hubert and Eugene, who could not resolve to delay 
another day before seeking their friends. 

Perhaps the strength of their hope was one cause of 
their greater strength of body. Most of the exiles were 
wholly ignorant of the history of the friends they had 
left in France, but Hubert and Eugene had heard that 
their friends had gone, or at least had been on the way 
to Holland, and had been informed of their own desti¬ 
nation to the West Indies. This colony had come from 
Holland, and their hope was strong that their own family 
would form part of it. Upheld by such a hope, they 
had struggled on through the day, and now at the time 
of sunset were very near the object of their wishes. 

And now the Indian has led them out of the forest, 
and-shewing them the houses of their countrymen, has 
I'eceived their thanks, and returned to pass the night 
in the silent woods, a more pleasant resting-place to 
him than could be any habitation of man. The exiles 
stand alone on a high ridge overlooking the whole set¬ 
tlement. 

How changed is the scene since we last looked on it I 
The river, no longer the cause of deformity and mischief, 
is now one of the fairest features in the landscape. The 
annual floods which used to devastate the whole plain, 
are now no longer dreaded. Here high banks force the 
stream to keep its proper limits. There, judiciously 
planned, devious canals tempt it to bestow its super¬ 
abundant waters in directions always harmless, and 
often beneficial. 

Instead of dreary swamps, we see now fields of corn 
in all their bright spring green, meadows of luxuriant 



262 


The Huguenot Family. 


hay, and sunny pasture lands, where the well-fed, well- 
kept cattle are enjoying themselves to the utmost. 

The small log-huts are changed into comfortable, and 
for the most part, very pretty farm-houses, with veran¬ 
dahs covered with creepers of varied form and hue, 
with substantial barns, cow-houses, and cattle-sheds 
for the accommodation of that same grain and hay, and 
those same stately kine whose acquaintance we made 
in the meadows. 

Herds of matronly-looking cows were being driven 
home for the evening milking. Housewives flitted to 
and fro from cow-house to dairy, from granary to poul¬ 
try-yard, and children sported and shouted on the 
banks of the river, or among the green knolls and 
blooming orchards. Everything looked bright and 
happy in the light of the setting sun. Our two travel¬ 
lers stood still and silent—their hearts were too full for 
speech, too full for action. They stood leaning on each 
other, gazing on the scene, as if of gazing they could 
never have enough. 

One house especially attracted their attention. It 
was nearer them than any other, and both in architec¬ 
ture and situation was the most beautifal of any. The 
ground sloped gently up from the river to the edge of 
the forest. The house had been built near the top of the 
hill, commanding a flne view of the whole valley. The 
wood swept round two sides of the little homestead, 
affording shelter from many a cold blast, and forming 
a fine back-ground to the bright-looking cottage, with 
its white window-curtains, its gaily painted doors and 
shutters, and its picturesque tasteful verandah. A 
large garden, well stocked with fruit, flowers, and vege¬ 
tables, lay down the sunny slope in front, and on one 



A Meeting. 


263 


side an orchard, now sheeted with its pink and white 
blossoms, stretched down to the water’s edge. 

There was something so attractive, so homelike, and 
peaceful in the whole scene, that the travellers could 
not turn their eyes from it. Just because it was more 
beautiful and tasteful than any other, a vague fancy 
possessed them that it must be the home they sought—• 
the home of those dearest to them. 

All was very quiet about the house. A sturdy wo¬ 
man, followed by two girls, each bearing a milk-pail, 
crossed the farm-yard behind ; but they were the only 
people that were seen. There was a little more stir at 
the bottom of the garden. An elderly, or perhaps I 
might say an old man, was digging up a bed with 
vigorous strokes, which spoke of a hale old age, of sturdy 
arms, and hearty will. A girl of about eleven sported 
round him, now affecting to help him, by endeavouring 
with her small spade to break down the stiff clods he 
threw up, now darting off to visit a favourite flower 
and shrub, and again returning to tease a chubby little 
boy about three years old, who was raking the gravel 
walk with as much grave determination and diligence 
as if the welfare of the whole family had depended on 
his exertions. 

It was with a strange kind of interest that Hubert 
and Eugene watched these children. They were too 
distant to be able to distinguish their features ; but yet 
they half fancied that they could recognise them. 

“ Surely these are Hortense and Theodore,” Eugene 
cried, after a few minutes’ silent observation. “ Dear 
little fellow, he must be running about by this time.” 

“ Dear Eugene, have you forgotten what the Baron 
de Raynal told you ?” 



264 


The Huguenot Family. 


“ Ah yes!’^ he recollected now, and shuddered at 
the recollection of his baby brother’s death. 

“ These cannot be our people, then,” he said, as 
sadly as if his hopes had centred in this one house. 

“ Why not ?” was Hubert’s cheerful answer. “There 
may have been arrivals of which we know nothing. 
This may be another little brother whom God has 
given you to fill Theodore’s plaee. Let us move a 
little nearer, that we may see them better.” 

They did so, keeping on the heights that they might 
not lose sight of the cottage and garden. They had 
not taken many steps before their ears were caught 
with the sound of music in the forest before them. It 
was a chorus of manly voices. They sung the refrain 
of an old well-known French song. The heart of 
Hubert thrilled at the sound. Scenes crowded on his 
memory in which he had heard and borne a part in 
that old refrain. Where now were those voices which 
had then joined with his? And how much had passed 
since then I The sounds came nearer. They could 
distinguish the words. It was the song of hunters re¬ 
turning home, and was evidently intended as a signal 
of their approach to the home circles expecting them. 

Now the singers come out of the wood,—about a 
dozen men bearing guns, a dead deer or two, some 
birds, and other implements and trophies of the chase. 
They separate, some to one hand, some to another, but 
all down to the valley except one, who turns to the 
cottage on the hill. He is a handsome man, and even 
in that simple hunter’s garb there is something aristo¬ 
cratic in his carriage and motions. The travellers 
look after him eagerly, breathlessly. 

“ Is it Theodore ?” “ Is it papa ?” burst from their 




A Meeting. 


265 


lips at the same moment. But the questions cannot he 
answered. He walks in the shade, and keeps his head 
so determinately turned to his home, that his face can¬ 
not be seen. 

To that home the eyes of our exiles are also turned. 
What a pleasant family group comes out to greet the 
father and husband ! A young girl is the first; she 
stands in the porch, her eyes eagerly looking up the 
hill, while the practised fingers make the bright knit¬ 
ting needles go through their rapid evolutions. Now 
she is sure he is coming. The work is cast aside, and 
she runs joyfully out to meet him. But a cry of dis¬ 
tress arrests her steps. The children in the garden 
have left their old friend, and are toiling up the hill, 
that they too may meet papa. The impatient little 
girl drags on the toddling child too fast, he stumbles, 
falls, and his wail of mingled fright and disappoint 
ment reaches the more sober, elder sister’s ears. She 
cannot disregard it. She must give up the hope of 
getting papa’s first kiss. She hastens down the path 
to lift up and comfort the fallen. 

And now two elder members of the family come into 
view. One, a small, slight, fairy-looking form, with 
golden curls hanging on her neck and shoulders. The 
other darker, taller, more matronly, with a baby in her 
arms. They reach the gate just as the father has set down 
the child who had first reached him. He takes the 
eager, springing baby, and lifts him, crowing and laugh¬ 
ing, high above his head. The mother stands, looking 
up at them, proudly, happily. The setting sun falls full 
upon her up-turned face. At once her boy recognises 
inose eyes so full of love, that gentle, beaming smile. 
He quits his uncle’s arm, and darts forward. Breath- 




266 


The Huguenot Family, 


less with haste, choked with the fulness of joy, hardly 
can he send forth the eager words, “ Mother, mother !" 

At that wild, passionate cry, all look round. He 
has reached them and thrown himself on his mother’s 
neck. She cannot think, cannot reason; she only feels, 
that her own hoy, so long lost, is once again in her 
arms. She sees not her brother’s approach, she sees 
only those dark eyes looking so lovingly into hers, 
raining hot tears of happiness on her face and neck; 
she hears not Pauline’s glad, and yet calm greeting to 
Hubert, nor Theodore’s exclamations of surprise ; she 
hears only that low, oft-repeated murmur, “ Mother, 
my mother, my own mother !” She is clinging to him 
more than he to her ; he has grown so tall, so strong, 
and manly; and she trembles so much, that she could 
not stand, were it not for his support; but yet she 
hardly understands why she trembles, hardly realizes 
what makes her so happy. 

It is her husband’s voice speaks in her ear, and 
wakes her from that trance of deep over-flowing joy. 

“ Dear Marie,” he says, “ am I not to see our boy ?” 
and recalled to herself, sbe unclasps her arms from him, 
and with a relieving burst of tears gives him to his 
father. And now she has time and thought to give to 
the other arrival, and Hubert gets his share of the joy¬ 
ful greeting. 

The little girls have shrunk back half-frightened. 
They cannot think that tall man is their own Eugene, 
and are more inclined to acknowledge Hubert than 
him. Their uncle is the least changed of the two. 
And Eugene laughs to think that he had half-feared 
the dancing fairy he saw in the garden was too old for 
Hortense, whom now he has to kiss as the little Aimee 



A Meeting. 


267 


he rememhers so tiny, so babyish. And he looks ad¬ 
miringly at the graceful figure, and sweet, blushing, 
modest face of his elder sister. 

And the little three-year-old Hubert begins to mur¬ 
mur a little because papa has never once looked to him. 
And baby echoes his complaints in louder, more voci¬ 
ferous, if less intelligible, strains. And Bernard comes 
up from his digging, with a vague hope that the 
arrival which causes so much emotion may be his own 
Master Eugene; and cannot find words to express 
his admiration of the boy’s growth, of his fine, open, 
manly face, and well-knit vigorous limbs. And Jeanne 
Lajou, who has finished her milking, and has in some 
mysterious manner gained an inkling of the truth, de¬ 
spatches her two girls on twenty different errands, all 
bearing upon the magnificent supper she means to pro¬ 
vide for such welcome visitors. And herself sees that 
the parlour fire is bright enough, and cheery enough 
for so joyful an occasion. 

And now the happy party come in, the strangers 
looking admiringly at everything, with eyes long un¬ 
used to the luxuries and comforts of civilized life. 
They are shown into a large cheerful parlour, not only 
comfortably but prettily furnished. True, all the 
articles are home-made. But Marie’s taste, and Ber¬ 
nard’s ingenuity and skill, have combined to produce 
admirable results. 

It is with curiously mingled feelings that the wan¬ 
derers look round. It is pleasant to return to the 
habits of civilized life. But to Hubert especially, that 
return has called up such a host of recollections of old 
scenes, and old friends he can never see again, that the 
pleasure is not unmixed with sadness. 



268 


The Huguenot Family. 

And now a large Bible meets tbeir eyes. Ho w 
eagerly tbey seize it! How fondly they dwell upon 
each word ! They ask it from each other repeatedly, 
that they may with their own hands turn over the pre¬ 
cious pages, with their own eyes read this one or that 
other passage of the many with which memory has 
often comforted and refreshed their souls. 

“ Ah, what it is to have a Bible of my own once 
again!” Hubert says, as he clasps the one Marie has 
silently put into his hands. 

“ But God spoke with His voice when you had not 
His written word,” Pauline asserts in her quiet confi¬ 
dent manner. 

“ Yes, spoke to me in the-memory of these precious 
words,” he answered gratefully. “ I did not know before 
how much of it I could repeat. It was as if the Lord 
Himself opened fresh stores in my memory each day.” 

Now supper comes in. Such a supper! Zealous 
affection, joyful care have presided in its preparation, 
and it is such as no mere hireling could have pro¬ 
duced in the time and circumstances. Bernard and 
Pierre Lajou bring it in. The Lajous have now an 
establishment of their own. But their affection and 
veneration for their former master and mistress continue 
unabated. Jeanne still insists upon performing all the 
tasks she thinks too heavy or disagreeable for Marie 
and Pauline. And Pierre spends in Theodore’s garden 
and fields many hours, of which Theodore knows 
nothing. It was Jeanne who prepared the many 
savoury viands with which the table is spread. And it 
is she and her eldest girl who now come in to carry off 
the two little boys to bed, that the elders may have the 
more peace to talk. 




A Meeting. 


269 


Of crockery tlie colony cannot yet boast. But these 
wooden bowls and platters are Bernard’s handiwork, 
and by their varied, picturesque, and sometimes fan¬ 
tastic carving, afford more amusement and pleasure 
than the finest service of china could have done. 

The room is lighted only by the bright crackling 
wood-fire. But its cheerful dancing illumination is so 
home-like, so well suited to the scene and to their 
happy hearts, that they do not miss candle or lamp. 

The outward accessories of their happiness I may 
describe, but how tell of that ever-flowing spring of 
joy in their hearts ? how count up the many ingredients 
of which it is composed? how weigh the gratitude and 
love with which parent and child, brother and sisters, 
look on each other’s faces, and thank the Lord who has 
brought them together again ? How do each in turn 
become narrator and listener! How do hearts beat 
quick, and eyes fill at the tale of danger and sufferings! 
How, with a long relieving breath, do all come back to 
the consciousness that they are now together in that 
home of peace and rest I 

But even such happy communion mnst come to an 
end. The weary travellers must go to rest; Bernard 
is called in, and with his family round him Theodore 
opens the Bible, and reads the 107th Psalm. How do 
their hearts follow every word—how cordially do they 
bear witness, by their own experience, of the Lord’s 
readiness to hear and save Hi§ people !—and when the 
last words are read, as by a common and irresistible 
impulse, every voice is raised to repeat the words, “ the 
loving-kindness of the Lord.” 

Ah, how much had each known of that loving-kind¬ 
ness ! His loving-kindness to Hubert, strong in faith, 



270 


The Huguenot Family. 


firm in principle, who had been so continually sustained 
in every trial and every sorrow, that his joy in the Lord 
had never wavered. His loving-kindness to Theodore, 
forgiving his backsliding, watching over him in his 
wanderings from the right road, and through all his 
long night of despondency and unbelief, and recalling 
him at last to the knowledge of Himself. His loving¬ 
kindness to Bernard, grown grey in ungodliness, lead¬ 
ing him so lovingly to Himself, and giving him such a 
full measure of peace. His loving-kindness to Marie, 
the gentle, clinging woman, loosening her from all 
earthly support, only to make her lean the more fully 
and trustingly on Himself, giving strength to her weak¬ 
ness, and to her fearfulness courage, and so tenderly 
and continually caring for her safety. His loving-kind¬ 
ness to Eugene, manifesting Himself to him in his lone¬ 
liness, taking him in His arms, carrying him in Hia 
bosom, being to him father, mother, and sister. ‘ His 
loving-kindness to Pauline, whose quiet, resting faith 
stood in so little need of the teaching' of trials, whose 
weak intellect could so little have profited by such 
teaching, and who had therefore been so tenderly shel¬ 
tered from much that the others had borne, so lovingly 
cared for and protected. His loving-kindness to the 
timid Hortense, to the giddy, high-spirited Aimee, in 
that the one had been taught trust and confidence by 
the kindness she met with, the other had been aroused 
to thought by the perils she had passed through. Ah I 
surely well might their hearts swell, as again and 
again these words were repeated by every voice, ‘‘ The 
loving-kindness of the Lord—the loving-kindness of the 
Lordr^ 


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